


in times of war

by epsiloneridani



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Cody is not impressed with the Jedi, Gen, Physical Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: “I know what you’re thinking, and I agree with it,” Block says. “But the Chancellor has drafted the Jedi into this war as generals, so we’re going to have to learn to live with them.”“Yes, sir,” Cody says, and hopes that there are more than five of his class left less than two days into the war. “I’ll keep that in mind.”--Obi-Wan is not the first general to lead the 212th Attack Battalion of the 7th Sky Corps.Peacekeepers have no place in a war.
Relationships: Boil & CC-2224 | Cody, CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody & Waxer, CC-2224 | Cody & Wooley, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 372
Kudos: 675





	1. Chapter 1

“Try to contain your excitement, Commander.”

Cody snorts softly. Admiral Block comes to a stop beside him and folds his hands behind his back. Beyond them, a shuttle is slowly passing through the bay’s docking protocols and moving toward a designated landing space.

“Yes, sir,” Cody says, without taking his eyes off the ship. His helmet is tucked under his arm; he wishes he could slip it back on, but then, he doubts that that would be proper etiquette for greeting a Jedi. They’re very big on ritual procedure, if the briefing about them is to be believed.

He’d just like to know whose procedure they’ll be observing.

Block grimaces. Cody’s only known him for thirty-six hours and he likes him already. Block’s taller than the clones by an inch or two, with dark brown skin and black hair he keeps shaved close to his head. His uniform is Republic standard: crisp grey. He’s at least thirty years Cody’s senior, but there’s a power to his frame and a command to his stance that Cody can’t help but admire. He gets the sense that, were the ship boarded, Block would be right on the front lines beside them.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I agree with it,” Block says. “But the Chancellor has drafted the Jedi into this war as generals, so we’re going to have to learn to live with them.”

They don’t have the casualty report from Geonosis yet. Cody’s heard the rumors. Almost all of the commando squads were deployed; they dropped them in with too much equipment and not enough intel. Most of them were massacred in the catacombs.

Delta’s the only squad that came back completely intact. They were either stupid lucky or stupid skilled.

Most of the command class was deployed too. The last time Cody saw Rex, he was kitted up in crimson-streaked armor and boarding a gunship with the rest of the captains. Cody watched him go and wished, for the hours of silence that came after, that he had been able to go with him. The marshal commanders were kept back to coordinate successive deployments.

His knuckles are still stiff from being clenched tight for so long.

“Yes, sir,” Cody says, and hopes that there are more than five of his class left less than two days into the war. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

If this is how the Jedi command, there are going to be a lot of graves before the first week is over.

The ship touches down. The ramp extends with a long, hydraulic hiss.

The Jedi takes a moment to appear. He’s a little shorter than Cody, with light skin and a slimly built frame; he has a long mane of golden hair he’s tied back in a messy ponytail. His robes are a warm brown, perfectly clean and immaculately pressed. There’s a bright sort of awe in his eyes that makes Cody’s heart turn uncomfortably.

“You must be Commander Cody,” the Jedi says, crossing the space between them with a bounce in his step. “I’m Sylvan Free, Knight of the Jedi Order. It’s a pleasure to meet you – both of you.”

Cody snaps to attention and salutes. Free tilts his head curiously at him, then suddenly seems to realize the proper response.

“Oh! At ease,” he says, flapping a hand in front of him. “You can be at ease, Commander. There’s no need for a salute.”

Block snorts softly. Cody lets his shoulders relax. “I’ll be giving you a tour of the ship, sir,” Cody says. “If you’ll follow me.”

Free nods quickly, then falls in step beside him. “This place is enormous,” the Jedi says. “I’ve never been on a ship quite like this one.”

The Republic hasn’t been at war in hundreds of years. Of course he’s never set foot on a military vessel. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Cody says, instead of that, “what’s your role in the Order?”

“I’m a mediator,” Free says. “The Council dispatches me to negotiate agreements.”

“Between warring factions?” Cody asks, a little too hopefully.

Free doesn’t seem to notice it. “Certainly not. Most of my assignments are just trade agreements. There are a few cloak and dagger dealings here and there, of course, but that’s unavoidable in politics.”

Cody can feel the headache starting already. A diplomat. They sent him a diplomat to lead the 212th Attack Battalion of the 7th Sky Corps.

“Very impressive, sir,” Cody says coolly. “This way, please.”

Every aspect of the ship is an absolute fascination to Free. Cody takes him to the mess, the gunship bay, the armory, and the gym; with each step, the Jedi’s enthusiasm only grows. Cody wants to snap at him – _This is a warship. You are our general. Maintain some bearing_.

Of course he can’t. The Jedi outranks him.

The bridge is the final stop on the official tour. The second the door hisses open, every trooper in the room snaps to attention and salutes.

For the second time in as many hours, Free is dumbstruck. Cody clears his throat. The Jedi startles. “Right,” Free says. “Um, at ease. Please.”

The troopers turn back to their work. Cody curls a hand into a fist at his side and makes himself breathe. “If you don’t mind, General, I’d like to run over some logistics while we’re here.”

Sylvan furrows his brows. “Logistics?” he repeats hesitantly.

“Yes, sir,” Cody says briskly. “We’re being deployed to Coyerti to seize the stronghold the Separatists have established in the capital city. Republic Intelligence believes they’re planning to use the city as a staging ground for the construction of a laboratory.”

“A laboratory?”

“To develop biological weapons,” Cody says. “Coyerti has a very diverse ecosystem. Intelligence thinks they’re going to use it a testing ground.”

Free is properly horrified. His eyes have blown wide. “That’s terrible,” he says. “Of course we have to stop them.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says. “I’ve already drawn up a preliminary plan. I’d like to go over it with you.”

“Certainly.”

By the time Cody’s gotten fifteen minutes into the briefing, Free looks hopelessly overwhelmed. Cody slows down and circles back. Initial points of entry will be here, here, and here. The troops will push to this position, sweep the surrounding area for resistance, and then begin to move the walkers down the corridor and into the city itself. Once they arrive at the base, they’ll blast through the front gates and move to take the base.

“Do you have any recommendations, General?” Cody asks, once he’s finished.

Free stares at him. Cody could swear his eyes are glazed over.

“General?”

“That looks fine,” Free says faintly. “It’s a very well-prepared plan, Commander.”

“Like I said, sir, it’s still in its preliminary stages. We’ll review it again tomorrow, and then disseminate it to the company commanders so they can pass it down the chain of command.”

Free gives him a weak smile. “I think I’ll retire to my quarters now to meditate,” he says.

“I can show you there, sir.”

“I remember my room assignment,” Free says. “Not to worry, Commander. I’ll find my way.”

The door closes after him. Cody braces his hands on the holotable and blows out a long breath.

“That sounded like it went well,” Block says, suddenly beside him. Cody straightens to meet his gaze. There’s a grim smile on the Admiral’s face.

Sylvan Free is a complete and utter _di’kut_.

It’s the first thing that comes to mind. It’s something he can’t say, especially in front of troopers who would no doubt pass it around until the entire ship has lost confidence in a general they haven’t even met.

“He’ll learn, Admiral,” Cody says at last. “He’ll learn.”

He has to. He doesn’t have a choice.

* * *

Sylvan Free is well and truly terrified.

He clutches the gunship’s overhead rail like his life depends upon it. Every burst of wind makes him tense. The hand he has at his side shakes violently until he curls it into a fist.

Cody stays close to him once they land. Free steps off the gunship then stands motionless, watching the rest of their troops disembark and begin to man the walkers.

“This is the only way?” Free asks suddenly.

Cody stares at him for a long beat. “Sir?”

Free turns to him. His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept. “Surely we haven’t exhausted our diplomatic options,” he says. “Biological warfare is against every intergalactic law in existence.”

“The Republic wrote those laws, sir,” Cody says. “The Separatists no longer recognize them.”

“The Separatists are still people. They must have consciences. They must know this is wrong.”

The Separatist armada is, by and large, comprised of droids; there are very few living officers serving on the front lines. Cody doubts if the Separatist citizens have any way of finding out what’s really going on out here. What they believe is completely contingent on what Dooku tells them is happening.

“Maybe, sir,” Cody says, “but all efforts to find a diplomatic solution have failed. The Separatists refuse to engage in peace talks.”

“The core Separatist body, maybe,” Free says. “But what about the bastion’s commander?”

“The bastion’s commander is a tactical droid,” Cody returns calmly. “Trust me when I say it won’t want to negotiate with you.”

Free sets his jaw. “I could try,” he says. “It might be worth a try.”

“Any communication we broadcast will lead them right back to us, sir,” Cody says, more patiently than he feels. “If we attempt to contact the tactical droid, we will be providing them with our exact location. They’ll know where we are and use that to deduce our most likely direction of attack. This campaign will be over before it starts.”

Free swallows thickly. His hand falls to the lightsaber hanging on his belt. “Of course, Commander,” he says. His grip trembles around the hilt. “That makes perfect sense.”

The march into the city is silent. The citizens evacuated when the Separatists landed on the planet, but they must have done it hastily. There are speeders strewn about, abandoned during the exodus. Some of the buildings have been haphazardly boarded up with jagged sheets of durasteel.

There are no bodies, but it still feels like they’re stepping on graves.

_“Commander. You’re about to make contact with the enemy. There’s a droid patrol a couple hundred meters from your position.”_

“Good work, Waxer,” Cody says. He and Boil are already proving themselves to be excellent scouts. “Now get back here. We’re going to need every man we have.”

The patrol is only a squad sized element. With the tanks and a full platoon marching at the front of their formation, it’s a simple enough obstacle to overcome.

The company the patrol was supposed to report back to is what slows their march to a crawl. The men scatter for cover behind the rubble and the abandoned speeders and return fire.

“Tanks!” Crys calls. “Commander, they’ve got tanks!”

“Pull back,” Cody snaps over his comm. “All walkers, pull back. Get out of their range.”

The first walker is too slow to respond. It explodes in a shower of scorching debris. Cody curses and dares raise his head to snap off a few shots.

There weren’t supposed to be any _shabla_ tanks on this side of the stronghold; it’s why marching the tanks down the corridor seemed like a feasible plan. Republic Intelligence said the heavy artillery was stationed to defend the rear from a few desperate Coyerti raids. It was overkill, given the small arms carried by the forces the droids had been facing, but overwhelming the enemy with sheer numbers and firepower is the central tenet of Separatist strategy.

Republic Intelligence. He’s starting to think it’s an oxymoron.

The first shell shatters the street and, one after another, the tanks begin their barrage. Cody throws his hands over his head to shield it from a shower of slag and sparks.

They have to get up there and get those tanks down, or the walkers will never make it through.

“Commander,” Free says, huddled down beside him. The Jedi’s lightsaber is in his hand, but not ignited. There’s blood and ash smeared across his face; his hair is a ragged disaster. “This doesn’t seem to be going according to plan.”

“No, General,” Cody says tersely. “It’s not.”

“Do we have a contingency?”

“We have to take out those tanks,” Cody says.

Free’s eyes widen. “We’ll never make it to them.”

Cody sets his jaw. “Right now, we have the advantage in numbers,” he says. The original plan was to take the enemy by surprise, force their way through the front gates, and blast the tanks before they had the chance to maneuver into a firing position. This isn’t all that different.

“This will cost us a lot of men,” Free says.

“If we don’t push through, then we’re going to lose a lot more,” Cody says firmly. “We’ve been trained to neutralize tanks. On my mark, first, second, and third squads will—”

“I’m the ranking officer,” Free says sharply. “Correct?”

“….correct, sir.”

“We aren’t going to rush that tank line,” Free says. There’s a wild, desperate light to his eyes. Something sick turns in Cody’s chest.

“Then what do you suggest we do, sir?”

Free takes a shuddery breath. “I’m going to try to negotiate with them,” he says. His hand trembles on his lightsaber hilt. “I’m going to go out there and do what _I_ was trained to do.”

Cody grits his teeth. “Sir,” he says. “I have to advise against this. They’ll blow you to pieces.”

“I’m not asking your permission.” Free’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Stay here, Commander Cody. With any luck, I’ll be back in a moment.”

“General,” Cody says again, but Free shows no signs of having heard him. The Jedi shoots to his feet and swings himself over the rubble and into the open. ”General!”

 _Shabla_ Jedi.

“General!”

Free marches unerringly toward the enemy tank line, waving his arms over his head. “Hold your fire! I’ve come to talk!” he calls, dim through the shattering din. “I’ve come to—”

He’s obscured by a tank blast, seething smoke and smoldering ash. Cody swears in every language he knows and barks _Cover me!_ before he charges into the open. _Shabla_ Jedi. _Shabla_ ‘General’. Negotiate with the droids. What the hell was he thinking?

The general is slumped in a messy heap. Cody hoists him and bodily drags him back to their line. The medic’s waiting, but he doesn’t need Mirjahaal's analysis to tell him what he already knows.

Sylvan Free is very, very dead.

“ _Shab_ ,” Mirj mutters. “This is bad.”

“Wrap the body and get him someplace out of sight,” Cody orders, gathering up Free’s cloak and saber. “Then get back to your squad.”

“What are you going to do?” Mirj asks, tilting his head. Behind the helmet, Cody’s sure he’s furrowing his brows. “What do you need those for?”

Most of the 212th just saw their general take a tank blast to the face. Cody can already feel the fear beginning to ripple through the lines. So much for the ever-inspiring Jedi.

Watching your commanding officer get slagged is terrible for morale.

“They saw him go down,” Cody says, securing the cloak around his shoulders and flipping the hood over his helmet. “They don’t know he’s not getting back up.”

Mirj stares at him.

“Do you have a better idea?” Cody asks.

“No, sir.”

“Then get moving.”

Mirj rushes off. “First, second, and third squads,” Cody says. “On my mark, we’re going to neutralize those tanks. You know the drill.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

Cody straightens the cloak and curls his grip around the lightsaber. It’s not his first time holding one; Jango had a few he’d ‘acquired’ over the years. Sometimes, the command class’s sparring practice would be simple hand-to-hand, sometimes it would be with staffs or batons, and sometimes, it would be with lightsabers.

He never thought he’d actually use that last piece of training.

The blade hisses to life, a burning blue. Cody holds it in front of him for a moment, takes a deep breath, and lifts it to the sky.

“Mark!” he calls, and charges.

There’s a roiling warcry, rippling through the ranks, and then they’re right behind him. Cody keeps himself at the head of the formation, deflecting fire while his squads get the detonators to the tanks. The lightsaber is like a beacon. Most of the droids aren’t focused on his men.

They’re zeroed in on Cody.

The saber hums in his hands as he whirls and dives. It feels like a dance, but a dance where one wrong move means oblivion. Cody’s heart is pounding.

Stay in step.

The first tank goes up in flames, then the second. The third. The rest of the line.

“We’re clear, sir,” Waxer says. “The tanks are down.”

“Push into the base,” Cody orders, and leads them on.

With the tanks gone, the rest of the bastion is comparatively undefended. The walkers overwhelm them.

The stronghold is secure. The mission is done. Coyerti is safe.

And their Jedi general is dead.

Block meets them in the landing bay. Cody hands him the folded cloak and the lightsaber. The Admiral arches an eyebrow at him.

“It’ll be in my report, sir,” Cody says briskly. “We’ve wrapped the body. Mirj is going to put it in cold storage until we can transfer it for transport to the Temple. I’m sure there are funeral rites that need to be conducted.”

Block is staring at the items in his hands. “Indeed,” he says at last, and with a sharp nod, he’s gone.

The report is short, to the point, and blunt to the point of brutality. Cody guesses, as he sends it off to Block for final review, that he should have tried to present the incident with a little more tact than _Against all advice to the contrary, General Free marched directly into enemy fire in a futile attempt to communicate with B1 battle droids_.

Peacekeepers have no place leading an army. Cody drops his head into his hands and drags his fingers through his hair.

It’s going to be a long war.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of Cody had hoped that after Free’s untimely demise, the Jedi Council and the Senate would be too overwhelmed by their new responsibilities to realize that one of their Corps was without a general.
> 
> But of course the shuttle would arrive and of course it would carry another Jedi.
> 
> They’re the generals in this war.

_Kamino_

_25 BBY_

“We’re never going to make it.”

“Have some faith, Bly,” Cody snaps.

Bly scrutinizes him, then the field before them. A hail of fire batters the barricade behind which they’re crouched, and he flinches. “Faith,” he echoes. “Sure.”

Cody sets his jaw. The training course is rife with blasterfire; the enemy has the high ground, the cover, and the numbers. Distantly, he knows that that’s the point. _War isn’t easy, Kote_ , Jango had told him, pressing a helmet into Cody’s hands. _These exercises won’t be either_.

“Cody,” Gree says tensely. He’s clutching his dual pistols so tightly his hands shake; behind the dim green glow of his helmet, his eyes are wide. “What’s the plan?’

The simulation is called Fortress for a reason; their opponents are situated in a bastion. There are three levels, each with four snipers. Six shields are set up in a chevron at the base of the stronghold, providing cover from which six soldiers send out both blasterfire and grenades. At the peak of the fortress is a console. The goal is to breach the enemy’s defenses, reach the console, and hold off any ensuing assaults while a predetermined set of data is downloaded to the storage stick Cody entrusted to Faie.

“It’s the damned snipers,” Rex says, sounding older than his fourteen biological years. He’s coiled at Cody’s side. He betrays no fear by his tone; he’s two years younger than everyone else in the command class, but already he carries himself with the same bearing as the older cadets. Cody feels a brief flash of pride. “If we could see them and draw their fire, we could take them out.”

“They’ll take you out first,” Neyo supplies grimly. “They’re too well concealed for a quick point and shoot. Someone would have to go out there and physically direct our sights, and that’s suicide.”

“Grenade!” Faie barks, and Cody hunches forward. The explosion isn’t real enough to kill them, but it rocks their shelter regardless.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” Gree says. “Jango’ll activate the reinforcements and then we’ll be overrun.”

“I know,” Cody says tersely. “Give me a second.”

His comm crackles; Cody triggers it with a quick eye movement.

_“You’re running out of time, Commander.”_

“Well aware, sir,” Cody shoots back. It’s not unlike Jango to critique them mid-combat, but for the moment at least, Cody could do without it.

Jango’s quiet for a long moment. _“You haven’t considered all of your options,”_ he says.

“How so?”

_“You need to draw the sniper fire away if you’re going to break through.”_

A cold weight settles in Cody’s chest. “I know,” Cody says.

 _“Then draw the fire away, Commander_.”

Jango doesn’t speak again, but he doesn’t need to. He said they needed to break past the enemy barricade, but he might as well have told him _Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices_. Cody curls a hand into a fist, conscious of the others at his side – waiting.

If he asked any of them to run headfirst into enemy fire for the good of the squad and the mission, they’d do it without hesitation. His heart turns painfully.

“Cody?” Faie calls. “What are your orders?”

Then draw the fire away. Cody takes a deep breath.

“On my signal, get ready to fire on the snipers,” Cody says.

“We can’t see them,” Bly says sharply. “How are we supposed to—”

“Stay here and get ready to shoot,” Cody snaps, and swings over the barricade. Rex cries out for him, but he’s too busy trying to avoid being blasted to answer. Enemy bolts sear the air around him; if he wasn’t wearing a helmet, Cody’s sure he’d feel the heat on his face. He charges into it, angling his left shoulder pauldron toward the heaviest sources of fire. It’s oversized, sufficient to shield his skull; if he gets hit, at least it won’t be in the head.

“Mark!” Cody barks, lifting his weapon and focusing in on the fortress’ surface. There’s a flash of movement.

Sniper. There.

He flicks his laser sight on. Behind him, four shots ring out, peppering the fortress’ wall. Two strike home; the sniper plummets, fizzling away in a shower of hardlight sparks.

A bolt slams into his shoulder; Cody hisses. Their enemies aren’t carrying anything close to lethal, but if you get hit enough times, you won’t be getting up for a while. He doesn’t have forever.

He doesn’t need it.

Cody points out the next position – the next – the next, only dimly aware of the shooting pain ripping through his shoulder, down his arm, into his chest. His breath comes in sharp gasps.

The last sniper drops.

“Charge the chevron,” Cody orders tightly. His vision blurs. He blinks past it. “Rex, take them in.”

“What about you?”

“I’m right behind you,” Cody growls. “Go!”

Rex falls into the role of squad leader with practiced ease. Faie, Bly, Gree, and Neyo assume their proper positions in the formation. Cody takes a step toward them, they need all the help they can get, this is a team exercise, after all, but suddenly he’s on his knees, braced only by his shuddering palms. He doesn’t remember dropping. He never felt the impact.

He has to get up.

“Cody?” Bly calls, and Cody’s sure that he’s stealing glances between shots. “Cody, what’s your status?”

“I’m fine,” Cody snarls. Get up. Get up. “Press the advantage.”

There’s a pair of strong hands, pulling him up and bracing him against a plated chest. “We don’t leave people behind,” Neyo says, and Cody does his best to straighten and support his weight, to make himself a little lighter – to make the drag a little easier. Neyo doesn’t stop until he’s made it back to the squad, then only lets go long enough to hoist Cody into a carry.

“I can walk,” Cody croaks. His stomach is churning, but at least he can still see straight. “Neyo, put me down.”

Neyo pays him no heed; his focus is on the wall – and the climb. “I’ll carry you to the top,” he grits out, then abruptly stops talking. Cody locks one ankle over the other and makes himself as compact as he possibly can. Once they reach the summit, Neyo eases him down beside the console. Faie’s already working on the download. Gree and Bly are covering him.

Rex is at Cody’s side immediately.

“I’m okay,” Cody says, grasping at Rex’s arm until his fingers find purchase on the wrist gauntlet. He squeezes tightly. “I’m okay.”

Rex doesn’t look like he believes it, but he’s experienced enough to know that now isn’t the time to talk about it. His eyes steel. “Status?”

“I can fight.” Standing might be an issue, but he can take up a position by the console and lay down cover fire. “I can fight, Rex.”

“That’s good.” Rex gets to his feet again; the reprieve will be over any second, Cody knows: they still have Jango’s reinforcements to deal with. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Rex! We’ve got incoming!”

Rex hesitates. His gaze flicks to Cody, to the hardlight horde, and back again.

“Get moving, squad leader,” Cody says, and Rex stands straighter. “We still need you.”  
By the time the simulation shimmers away and they’re directed to stumble out of the training room, their armor is battered and blackened. Cody finds himself with one arm over Rex’s shoulders and the other over Gree’s. He wants to tell them they did well – wants to take hold of Rex and knock their foreheads together and say _You make me proud, vod’ika_.

When the doors to the hall hiss open, Jango’s standing there. His arms are crossed. There’s no trace of emotion on his face. The squad comes to a slow stop.

Jango regards them for a long moment. “Congratulations,” he says at last.

“Sir?” Bly says, a voice for the anxiety ticking in Cody’s chest. “What do you mean?”  
Jango cocks his head at him. “You’re the first squad to complete this exercise without taking casualties,” he says. His gaze finds Cody’s and holds. “Well done, Commander.”

“My squad,” Cody coughs, pushing at Rex and Gree to let him stand on his own. They don’t. “My squad deserves the credit, sir. Their execution was exceptional.”

Jango snorts softly. “So it was,” he says. His eyes gleam with pride. “So it was.”

* * *

“It’s been some time since we last found ourselves here, hasn’t it, Commander?”

Cody doesn’t look at the admiral, but by the tone of his voice, he’s sure Block is smirking. “Yes, sir,” Cody says dryly. “Exactly three standard days.”

Part of him had hoped that after Free’s untimely demise, the Jedi Council and the Senate would be too overwhelmed by their new responsibilities to realize that one of their Corps was without a general. He spent the first two days after Coyerti checking and double-checking his messages, hoping that the summons wouldn’t come.

No such luck. The journey to the nearest Republic-aligned planet had been shorter than anticipated and they had, consequently, beaten their new general to the base. Cody’s been stalking the halls, bargaining with himself: of course the shuttle would arrive and of course it would carry another Jedi.

They’re the generals in this war.

Not for the first time, Cody wishes the Republic had had some kind of standing military reserves. It would have eased the need for a clone army, some of them wouldn’t even exist, but lying awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to his brothers’ soft breaths, Cody sometimes thinks that that would be a more preferable alternative to being treated like fodder.

Block makes a thoughtful noise. His comm buzzes; Cody tilts his head just enough to catch sight of him pressing his hand to his ear and listening intently. After a moment, he nods, then lowers his hand back to his side.

“I’m needed on the bridge,” he says. There’s a note of apology in his voice that Cody appreciates. “You can handle things here, Commander?”

“Of course, sir,” Cody says, and bites back a sigh. Block gives him a solemn nod, holds his gaze for a beat, and strides for the landing bay’s doors. Cody hears them whoosh open and closed.

Then he’s alone.

The shuttle arrives late, shuddering to a slow stop over its designated dock. Cody straightens to attention. The ramp rattles down.

The new general doesn’t wear robes. He’s clad in dark, durable clothing that’s cut loose for movement but still clings close enough to avoid being a hazard in combat. Unlike his predecessor, he’s actually wearing armor: a silver chestplate and shoulder pauldrons, each with its own battle-scars. There’s a leather sash slung across his chest. His skin is pale; his hair is a dull white, pulled back in a tight topknot at the back of his head. A deep scar has been carved in an arc that runs along his forehead, around the inside of his right eye, and down into a slash across his right cheek.

“General,” Cody greets, saluting. “Welcome aboard.”

The Jedi stalks forward with a brutal grace that reminds Cody more of a predator than a peacekeeper. He doesn’t return the salute and instead looks Cody up and down, once.

“What am I supposed to call you?” the Jedi asks. His voice is cold. “Do you have a designation like the rest of the clones?”

Cody’s chest tightens. “CC-2224,” he says shortly. “That’s my designation, sir.”

“I will refer to you as Twenty-Four,” the Jedi says. “My name is Rahm Kota. You will refer to me as General Kota. Is that understood?”

Cody snaps off another salute. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I understand, sir.”

Kota stares at him for a moment. “Per the standard welcoming protocol, I have arranged a tour of the ship,” Cody says, careful to keep his tone even and polite. “If you’d like, I can—”

“I memorized the ship schematics before I arrived,” Kota says shortly. “I don’t require a tour. I am going to the bridge to review your previous engagement in further detail. You are dismissed.”

The Jedi doesn’t wait for, or seem to want, a response: as soon as he’s finished speaking, he brushes by Cody and disappears into the hall. For a long moment after the doors close, Cody doesn’t move. He clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides. Learn to live with them, Block said.

Learn to work with them.

Cody makes his way toward the bridge. Kota hadn’t asked for his presence and hadn’t seemed particularly inclined to welcome it, but he hadn’t issued an order that forbade it either. Cody steps into the turbolift and counts his breaths as it rises. So maybe the new general was a little unpleasant. That was fine. Cody didn’t need him to be pleasant: just competent. Surely he could find a way to circumnavigate something as petty as a conflict of personality.

Kota’s at the tactical center of the room, hunched over a holographic display with his palms braced on the edge of the table. The door hisses open. Cody stops in the entrance and snaps off a salute. Kota doesn’t so much as lift his head.

“I didn’t request your presence, Twenty-Four,” Kota says coolly.

Cody slowly lowers his hand back to his side. “No, sir,” he says, “you didn’t. But you did mention that you would be reviewing our previous engagement. I thought it might be helpful to have—”

Kota cuts him off. The sound is so harsh it takes Cody a second to realize it’s supposed to be a laugh. “You’re mistaken,” he says. “I don’t require your perspective.”

Cody does his best not to bristle. “Yes, sir,” he says automatically. “I understand.”

Kota straightens to his full height. For the first time, he meets Cody’s eyes. “I was born into the trenches. I have been fighting wars longer than you have been alive, Twenty-Four. There is nothing you could tell me that I don’t already know.”

Cody grits his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

“I reviewed the incident that led to the death of Jedi Knight Sylvan Free on Coyerti.”

There’s a note of cold accusation to his tone. Cody stiffens. Kota’s silent for a moment, regarding him; then his eyes steel. “In the field, I expect you to follow my commands without question,” he says. “It is your duty to obey me, not question my orders. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Kota says, and turns back to the holomap. Cody stands there for a moment, waiting for him to say something else – to dismiss him or address him again – but Kota, by all appearances, has completely forgotten he even exists. Cody swallows against the jagged lump swelling in his throat.

Learn to live with them.

He makes his way to the squad quarters. The second the door hisses open, every pair of eyes is trained on him.

“So?” Waxer asks, shooting to sit up and dangle his legs over the edge of his bunk. “What’s the new general like?”  
Cody tightens his grip on the helmet tucked under his arm. He wishes he had some words of reassurance for them, wishes he could say _We’re in good hands, now_ , that their new general has the experience and compassion prerequisite to good leadership, that he’s competent, that he values them, and that he won’t risk their lives without due cause.

But Cody’s not in the habit of lying to his brothers.

“We’ll make do,” Cody says at last, and beside Waxer, Boil drops his head into his hands and groans.

“So he’s gonna get slagged on his first mission too?”

 _I’ll call you Twenty-Four_. Cody sets his jaw; it’s more likely that Kota’s going to get a lot of clones slagged on his first mission. “Just do your jobs,” Cody says, “and we’ll all be fine.”

Longshot snorts. Cody arches an eyebrow at him. Longshot fidgets. “Does he have any idea what he’s doing?” he asks. He’s hesitant, as if he’s afraid to ask the question because it means he’ll get an answer. “Or are you going to be pulling double duty the rest of the war?”

Cody prepared himself for that possibility the second he set eyes on Sylvan Free. “Let me worry about that,” he says, and tries for a reassuring smile.

They don’t look convinced. Cody can’t blame them. They didn’t know Sylvan Free long, but they’d all heard the stories. The Jedi were supposed to be legends, as skilled with swords as with words – warriors and negotiators in equal measure. Free was meant to be a beacon for his men. An inspiration.

And he committed suicide in front of them instead.

“Get some rest,” Cody says, and pats Mirjahaal on the shoulder. The medic gives him a weary smile.

It’s better than nothing.

* * *

The summons comes through early.

“Waxer,” Cody says, and Waxer, halfway into lacing up one running shoe, looks to him with bleary eyes. If they were back on Kamino, the sky wouldn’t even be tinted grey yet. “You’re in charge of training this morning.”

There’s a question in Waxer’s frown; he doesn’t ask it. “Will do,” he says. “Same plan as yesterday?”

“I’ll leave it up to you,” Cody says, and feels a rush of appreciation for his diligence; he can always count on Waxer. “Just train hard.”

The smile that curls the corners of Waxer’s mouth sets some of Cody’s ticking anxiety at ease. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Commander.”

Cody shrugs into his training gear and takes the quickest course to the sparring rooms. The one to which he’s been directed to report is in a distant corner of the ship, far from the larger gyms into which the morning shift is packed.

“General Kota,” Cody greets neutrally, coming to a stop just inside the door. Kota’s shed his armor and the sash, but is otherwise dressed the same. He holds a wooden staff in each hand. His face is hard-set. Cody hesitates a beat, then crosses the remaining distance.

Kota’s eyes never leave him. Again, Cody’s reminded of a predator. Briefly, he wonders how the Jedi fits in with his peers; if the others are anything like Sylvan Free, then Kota must find himself in frequent conflict with them.

Silently, Kota holds out one of the staffs. The second Cody grasps it, he’s on the ground. The staff clatters uselessly to the side. He barely hears it past the ringing in his ears.

“First lesson of war,” Kota says, muted and distant. “Your enemy isn’t going to warn you. They’re just going to kill you.”  
Cody snatches up the staff and scrambles to his feet, dodging a few steps back. Kota twirls his own weapon idly. Cody adopts a defensive stance.

Kota lunges. Cody parries. The blow shudders through his staff with such force that he feels it all the way up his arm. Kota builds on that rumbling reverberation, pressing forward in a relentless flurry, pushing Cody to the edge of the circle and then all the way around its perimeter. His rhythm is brutal and unbroken, flawless and smooth. Cody keeps pace. He doesn’t have to strike back – not yet. He can afford to learn – to wait.

Two full cycles around the circumference, and Kota gives him an opening. Cody takes it, driving the rod of his staff into Kota’s chin and his elbow into his ribs. Kota stumbles, just a step, and the air around him seems to shift, to coil and writhe with red fury. His next blow strikes the center of Cody’s staff; it shatters into two pieces in a shower of stinging splinters.

Kota’s weapon is unharmed, unnaturally intact. Cody doesn’t have time to wonder why. He drops one of the pieces and shifts the other into a swordsman’s grip. Kota beats against that diminished defense until he dislodges Cody’s grasp from the makeshift hilt and sends the rod soaring into oblivion.

Cody holds up his hands to concede the match. He barely has the chance to register the surge of ire in Kota’s eyes. There’s a decisive crack, then a sharp pain, and Cody’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He wraps one arm around his ribs and braces the other in a bar before his face. At least if he’s going to take a hit, it won’t be to the head.

Kota aims low instead. Cody’s legs go out from under him. The ceiling is spinning above him. He blinks desperately, clawing at the ground in a fevered bid for purchase. Get up. Get up. Get up.

He has to get up.

The final blow never comes. Kota hovers over him like a storm. “Second lesson of war,” he growls. “You never surrender to your enemy.”

Cody makes it to his feet. “Sir,” he grits out, a breathless huff. “It was my impression that this was a sparring match. Once disarmed, it’s customary to—”

“ _Never_ ,” Kota snarls. The staff snaps toward him. Cody braces for the impact, but the weapon stops just shy of his battered ribs. “Do I make myself clear, Twenty-Four?”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says automatically. Kota studies him for a moment longer, then snorts.

“I wouldn’t expect a clone to understand honor,” he says, and stalks from the room. The door hisses shut behind him.

It’s tempting to sink down and brace his wounded ribs, but Cody knows if he does that, he won’t be getting back up without help. The last thing he needs is Waxer and Boil hounding him for an explanation.

Cody stumbles slowly to the medbay. Every jostling step sends a new wave of fire through his nerves. His breath is ragged.

Some sparring match.

“Cody?”

“Hey, Mirj,” he croaks.

Mirjahaal looks him up and down. His brows furrow. “What the hell happened to you?” he demands.

Cody lifts one shoulder in shrug and immediately regrets it. “Okay,” Mirj says softly, and takes hold of his arm. “Let me look at you.”

Mirj runs him through a quick scan and frowns. “How’d you crack your ribs?” he asks.

“Sparring.”

Mirj tilts his head at him, already keying in a code on the medical table’s console. The scanner rotates and transforms with a mechanical whir. “I can put you through a regeneration sequence,” he says. “Or I can put you in a bacta tank.”

“Regenerator’s fine,” Cody mutters. It’ll heal the bones but unlike the bacta, it won’t do anything to flush away the soreness and the bruising.

“You sure? I can—”

“We need to be conservative with our supplies,” Cody says shortly. “Regenerator’s fine, Mirj.”

Mirj activates the regenerator and drags a chair to Cody’s side. He has a datapad tucked under his arm. “Forms,” he says, and wrinkles his nose. “Admiral Block wants us to keep a detailed record of every injury.”

Cody nods agreeably and settles back; regeneration, after all, is not an abbreviated process. Mirj taps away at his datapad, and for a little while, it’s quiet.

Ten minutes in, and Cody can feel the question burning in the air between them. “Go ahead and ask,” Cody says suddenly. “You’re killing me.”

“You were sparring with General Kota,” Mirj says without looking up from his ‘pad. His fingers dance across it, faster, faster. His voice tightens. “Did he do this to you?”

Cody snorts softly. Mirj’s head snaps up. “Did he?” he asks again.

“Who told you I was sparring with Kota?”

“You did, just now,” Mirj says immediately. “Everyone else was either training or asleep.”

Cody blows out a long breath and turns his head so his gaze is focused on the ceiling instead of Mirj’s scowl. “How much longer on the regeneration sequence?” he asks.

“I’m going to make note of it and then report it.”

Cody scoffs. “Why?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Who’s going to care?” Cody asks, without looking at him. He can almost feel Mirj’s face crumpling, seething indignation to crushing ruin. Who’s going to care, indeed: Mirj knows as well as the next man how the rest of the galaxy regards them.

“Block might,” Mirj says stubbornly, almost desperately. “He seems to like you.”

“Block’s focused on the war.”

“Cody, it’s my job to report all incidents of abuse.”

Cody sighs. “Then report it, Mirj,” he says tiredly, “and then let me know if it’s me or Kota they decide to transfer.”

Clones don’t get transferred; they get reconditioned or decommissioned. Out of the corner of his eye, Cody can just barely see Mirj’s jaw trembling. The medic’s hand settles on Cody’s wrist and squeezes.

He doesn’t ask again.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You are not fit for battle_ , Kota tells him, every day, and every day Cody bites back the urge to snap _You are not fit for command._ Soldier or not, war veteran or not, Jedi or not, general or not: he has no place in their ranks.

_Kamino_

_25 BBY_

“Again.”

Cody bites back a groan. A warrior does not complain; a warrior endures. Jango’s said it a million times, but with the stiffness long-settled in every one of his limbs, Cody’s briefly tempted to ask if he’s been a good warrior for long enough today.

“Kote,” Jango repeats, sharper this time. “Again.”

Cody braces himself with the wooden staff and uses it to drag his aching body up and off the mat. The sparring chamber’s lights are dimmed from their usual piercing white; they cast the space in a low red glow. Through the gloom, he can just barely make out the amused glint in Jango’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Cody says, and hopes he sounds stronger than he feels. He shifts to the ready position. Jango twirls his own staff and mirrors him.

Three strikes, and Cody hits the mat.

“Too slow,” Jango says, and Cody hisses a vile curse into the fibers. Jango has him firmly pinned; he holds for a second longer, then eases away. There’s a sudden void where the pressure used to be. “ _Kyr ge’kaan_ , Kote. You’re tired.”

Cody surges to his feet. “No,” he says, surprising himself. “I can keep going.”

Jango’s eyes twinkle again. “Part of training,” he says, “is knowing when to rest.”

“I can keep going,” Cody repeats stubbornly.

Jango chuckles and shakes his head. Cody doesn’t remember the last time he looked so gentle; none of them are bold enough to call him _buir_ to his face, but Cody thinks that, even if it’s always unspoken, Jango will always be the closest thing any of them has to a parent.

“ _Kyr ge’kaan_ ,” Jango repeats. “The exercise is over. Go clean up and get some rest.”

Cody snaps off a nod and does his best to set his shoulders back. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I will.”

“Kote?”

Cody stops with one foot over the door’s threshold and one still firmly in the training arena. For a second, he’s sure he’s about to be called back for another round, but Jango only crosses the space between them and takes hold of his shoulders. He’s silent for a second, studying Cody’s face. Slowly, he raises a palm and presses it to Cody’s cheek.

“Well done, _Kot’ika_ ,” Jango says. He smiles, and Cody feels a lump swell in his throat at the warm pride in his voice.

“Thank you, sir,” Cody says, more choked than he means to be. He clears his throat harshly. Jango pats his cheek, once, and lets go.

“Clean up. Eat something. Get some rest.”

The sleeping chamber is silent by the time Cody makes it there; the others have long since been ordered to bed. The pods are supposed to be sealed when they retire, but most of them are sticking out of the wall to various degrees. It looks like a haphazardly constructed staircase, zigzagging across the wall.

Only one’s sealed completely. Cody snorts and triggers the release mechanism. “Faie,” he says, “what the hell are you doing?”

Faie’s eyes are squeezed shut. He’s breathing shallowly. “Overcoming my phobia,” he croaks.

They get the claustrophobia from Jango. Faie’s is worst than most. Blitz, on the other hand, barely notices it at all. “The self-exposure’s supposed to be _gradual_ ,” Cody says. “How long have you been in there?”

Faie shrugs and eases upright. His brown curls are matted to his forehead. “Long enough,” he decides, and tries to give Cody a weak smile. It wobbles.

Cody pushes him back down with a gentle hand on his chest. Once he’s settled, he tucks the blanket over him and pats him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep,” he says, and waits for Faie’s eyes slip shut before he scales the ladder. He swings over to Colt’s bunk to soothe away a whimper, adjusts Bacara so half his body isn’t hanging off the pod, and spends a few moments beside Neyo, carding his fingers through his brother’s hair until Neyo’s breathing deepens and he relaxes.

“It’s okay,” Cody murmurs. “You’re okay.”

He knows before he gets there that his pod won’t be empty.

“Rex,” Cody says, like he does every night. “You have your own chamber.”

Rex scoffs. He’s cocooned himself in Cody’s blanket; only half his face is visible. His hair sticks up at all angles, bright blond spikes. It needs to be cut tomorrow if it’s going to stay within regulations, Cody notes, and resolves to wrangle Rex into it right after morning training. Jango’s the only person they’ll see at that hour and he doesn’t care what their hair looks like, even if he did arch an eyebrow at Keeli’s elaborate patterning.

“I know,” Rex says, and curls further into the blanket. Cody sighs and shoves at him until he scoots over enough for Cody to slide in beside him. As soon as Cody’s settled, Rex shifts closer and buries his face in Cody’s chest.

“More extra training?” Rex asks, muffled.

Cody snorts and ruffles his hair, then gives in and wraps his arms around him. He should send Rex to his own bunk, he’s not always going to be there for him to cling to, but he doesn’t have the will for it. Havoc would call him a pushover, and he’d be right. “Yeah,” Cody says. “More extra training.”

“You’re his favorite,” Rex says. There’s no jealousy there, just simple statement. “He thinks you’re the best out of all of us.”

Cody shrugs. “He just wants me to work on my endurance,” he says, “so I don’t get so fatigued when I fight hand-to-hand.”

“He’s right.”

“What?”

“About you being the best of us,” Rex says. He pulls back just enough to meet Cody’s gaze. His eyes blaze sincerity. “He’s right.”

There’s a lump in Cody’s throat for the second time in under an hour. “Go to sleep,” he croaks, and presses an obnoxious kiss to Rex’s crown. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rex bats at him. “I mean it,” he insists. “No one can beat you in sparring. Fox heard Jango talking to some of the _cuy’val dar_ the other day. He said you’re well on your way to becoming the best hand-to-hand combatant in the entire GAR.”

“Fox spends too much time sneaking around listening to things that don’t have anything to do with him,” Cody says. “Go to _sleep_.”

“But—”

“Sleep, Rex.”

Rex grumbles and snuggles in against his chest again. “Goodnight,” he says, but to Cody’s ears, it sounds more like _I love you_. The lump swells up again. Cody rests his cheek against Rex’s hair and squeezes him tightly.

“Goodnight, _vod’ika_ ,” Cody whispers, and drifts off to the sound of his brothers’ even breath.

* * *

_22 BBY_

_Venator-class Star Destroyer, designation: Herald_

“Again.”

Cody grits his teeth and tastes blood. The mat is slick with sweat beneath his palms. He claws futilely at it. His arms are trembling traitorously. His chest is on fire. “Yes, sir,” he bites out. Get up. Get up.

He can’t get up.

“Twenty-four,” Kota says. “Again.”

He can’t get up. Cody sucks in a strangled breath and feels it rattle through his ribs. “Yes, sir,” Cody repeats, and wills his tremor-wracked muscles to cooperate: if Kota can stand strong and tall after hours of sparring, so can he. He just has to push harder – dig deeper. Find his resolve.

Get up.

“Twenty-four.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says, for the third time. It’s just as useless as the first two: he’s not going to be standing any time soon, let alone swinging a staff. Briefly, he hopes Kota will just make a face and walk away. He can deal with disgust.

He’s had enough of the diatribes.

“Do you really think the enemy is going to give you a break just because you’re tired?” Kota demands. “Get _up_ , Twenty-Four.”

 _I can’t_. They’re words he was trained to use only when he meant them. _There’s no shame in asking for help. Aliit kotla’shya tome_ , Jango had said: the clan is stronger together. Cody takes one breath – another – another – and thinks of Rex, of Gree, of Bly, of Neyo, and all the others. His brothers. His blood.

Get up.

Cody lunges to his feet with a cry and staggers immediately. Pain explodes in his side. The world is spinning. The floor is above him, or maybe it’s the ceiling, he’s up, he’s down, he smells sweat, he tastes blood.

He’s face down on the mat.

“Get up,” Kota repeats, a harsh growl. A boot nudges at his ribs. “We’re not finished.”

Cody tries to push himself up onto his elbows, but for all of his effort, he can’t do it. His entire body shakes.

“Twenty-Four.”

“I can’t, sir,” Cody croaks at last. Shame and bitter rage bloom like acid in his chest. Kota snorts, as if that’s what he expected, as if that’s all he expected, and Cody’s heart burns. His vision is a scarlet haze. Not good enough. Not human enough.

Not pain.

Hate.

Cody manages to lift his head just enough to meet Kota’s gaze. If the general sees the venom in his eyes, he doesn’t react to it. He just stares at him for a long, hard moment. His scowl steels.

“You are not fit for battle.”

For a long time after Kota leaves, Cody can only breathe. When his muscles stop their violent shaking, he drags himself to the wall and, inch by agonizing inch, pulls himself to his feet.

The medical bay has become a familiar sight over the last two weeks. They have a deal, him and Mirj. Reporting Kota isn’t an option, but treating the injuries he inflicts certainly is. Cody’s not sure how sustainable the whole thing might be, but doing something is always better than doing nothing, and anyway, it eases Mirj’s mind.

By the time Cody stumbles through his door, the medic is ready and waiting. Cody eases down onto the table and lets Mirj run him through the customary battery of scans.

“No broken bones,” Mirj mutters. “That’s good.”

In the two weeks since he arrived, Kota hasn’t done more than batter and bruise. Cody’s not sure if he should be grateful. He hates that he feels grateful. Kota’s conduct is wholly unbecoming of an officer and contrary to the honorable warrior ethos Jango drilled into them. _You are not fit for battle_ , Kota tells him, every day, and every day Cody bites back the urge to snap _You are not fit for command_. Soldier or not, war veteran or not, Jedi or not, general or not: he has no place in their ranks.

“Yeah,” Cody says. “Just some stiff muscles.”

Mirj is already preparing an IV bag. Cody arches an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t take a blood sample, Mirjahaal,” he says dryly. “What’s that for?”  
“I don’t need to take a blood sample to know you’re dehydrated,” Mirj says. “You got up to train before anyone else did and you’re just now coming to see me. Don’t tell me Kota’s started giving you breaks.”

“You know he hasn’t.”

“Then it’s IV fluids.”

Cody sighs and holds out an arm obediently. “You can’t keep doing this for the whole war,” Mirj says, without meeting his eyes. He fumbles with the IV tubing and shudders a breath. “One of these days he’s just going to kill you.”

“Then I guess there won’t be a problem any more.”

“Not for you, anyway,” Mirj says. “But what about whoever succeeds you?”

Davijaan. Cody’s heart twists. He forces a wobbly smile. “Don’t worry,” he says, and pats Mirj’s arm. “I think he’s getting sick of sparring with me.”

Mirj blinks at him. “Getting tired of losing?”

Cody chuffs a laugh. If only. “Tired of winning.”

“He must be cheating somehow.”

Cody shrugs. “The Jedi have some Force they use,” he says. “They can tap into it and use to help them in battle.”

“Did Jango teach you that?”

“He did,” Cody says.

“Did he tell you how to counteract it?”

“Only in lethal combat.”

Mirj blows out a breath and finishes securing the IV. He wraps a gentle grip around Cody’s wrist. “We could tell Block,” he says, but it’s tired and listless. He makes this suggestion every day, as futile as it may be. They could tell Block and nothing would change.

Well, nothing except Cody’s status as a living marshal commander.

Cody ruffles his hair. It earns him a scowl. “I’m okay, Mirj,” he says. “I promise.”

Mirj scoffs. “You’re alive,” he says. “I don’t know about ‘okay’.”

Cody doesn’t have the energy to disagree with him. There should be some solace in survival, but Cody finds himself on-edge at all times: braced for an attack that might never come. He passes Kota in the corridor and his skin crawls and his soul seethes. He wants to set his stance; he wants to find a shield. He wants this twisting anxiety in his chest to ease.

He’ll have to settle for staying alive.

“Now you’ve got it,” Cody says, and tries to smile. Mirj shakes his head.

“Just get some rest,” he says. “This IV’s gonna be running for a while.”

Cody’s much less stiff and sore by the time he cleans up, gears up, and heads for the bridge. _We have to be conservative with our supplies_ , he told Mirj, but there’s no dissuading the man when he decides you need a bacta patch and some painkillers. Part of Cody thinks he should fight that harder.

A stronger part is grateful for the small relief.

“I didn’t request your presence, Twenty-Four.”

Kota’s studying the holographic display on the bridge’s tactical table. Cody stops a few feet away, helmet tucked neatly beneath one arm, and gives a crisp salute. Kota, customarily, neither acknowledges nor returns it. Cody lets his arm fall back to his side.

“I received a comm relaying the details of our next deployment,” Cody says, and hopes he doesn’t sound too pleased about the development. He’ll take bombs and blasterfire over sparring any day; he’s spent the last two weeks pacing his quarters, checking and rechecking and praying an assignment would come through.

Kota turns a burning gaze to him. Cody does his best not to flinch. “We won’t be proceeding directly to the deployment site,” he says.

“Sir?”

“I require additional crewmembers.” Kota turns back to the holographic display. “You’re dismissed, Twenty-Four.”

Additional crewmembers. Cody stifles a frown. For a second, he considers asking – then decides that that would be about as effective as slamming his skull into a bulkhead. Kota has been nothing if not brutal and brief.

Better to wait and see.

Cody spends the next two days in an anxious haze. Kota doesn’t summon him for sparring, so for the first time in two weeks, he’s free to train with his platoon. It barely registers. Additional crewmembers, Kota said. You don’t understand honor, Kota said. You’re unfit for battle, Kota said. It sounds dangerously close to a declaration of complete incompetence, and for clones, that’s as good as a death sentence. Not good enough to lead.

Not good enough to keep alive.

The summons comes through early. Cody gears up and pulls his helmet over his head. It’s not regulation to wear the bucket when greeting new arrivals, but for today, at least, he doesn’t care about the rules. If he’s going to be sentenced to execution, he won’t give Kota the satisfaction of seeing his reaction.

He won’t give Kota the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

The shuttle bay is mostly empty, save Kota. The general is standing with his hands clasped behind his back. His armor has been polished. His topknot is neatly secured. Cody pauses in the doorway and curls a hand into a fist. Breathe. Step. Breathe.

He comes to a stop beside his commanding officer and adopts an attentive position. This close to the oppressive presence, his chest aches. Kota shifts slightly and a surge of adrenaline shoots through Cody’s veins.

These days, he’s always braced for pain.

They stand in stiff and uncomfortable silence for a long time. Cody’s breath is harsh in his ears. He’s glad he muted his helmet comm. Kota can’t hear him. His Force won’t tell him – can’t tell him – can it? Jango never mentioned that. Most of their knowledge and training about Force-wielders had to do with how to outsmart, subdue, and eliminate one. There weren’t a lot of specifics.

Cody clenches his fist tighter.

The shuttle touches down.

The Human man that appears is clad in the standard grey Republic officer’s uniform, but his has a decorative silver stripe sweeping across the left shoulder, around the neckline, and up onto the right shoulder. The right side of his chest has two silver pins affixed, accolades from some conflict long past. His face is a pallid white; he has close-cropped black hair swept back and gleaming with gel. It’s longer than regulation length permits it to be, Cody notes. He’s an officer in the GAR, and a decorated one at that. He should know the rules.

The officer marches down the ramp and comes to a stop in front of them. “General Kota,” he greets. “Marshal Commander Mathazar Tavik reporting for duty.”

Kota nods approvingly. Cody’s heart is hammering so loudly he’s afraid they’ll be able to hear it through his armor. For a second, the conversation is muted, a distant din. They’re going to order him onto the ship – send him away to the Kamino. Replace him. He’ll be reconditioned or decommissioned and he’ll never see Rex again.

“Twenty-Four,” Kota says evenly. “You will report to Commander Tavik henceforth. Do you understand?”

Cody comes back to himself in a rush. “Yes, sir,” Cody says, and his lips are moving and words are coming out but he doesn’t remember telling himself to say them. “I understand, sir.”

Tavik gives him an appraising look. “I’ve heard about the clones,” he says to Kota. “The Kaminoans claim that they’re exceptional soldiers.”

“You’ll find they’re severely lacking on all fronts,” Kota says. “You can’t expect intellect or creativity from them. I’ll be relying on you for that.”

Cody bristles. Neither of them seems to notice.

“We’re being deployed to Galtor VI,” Kota says. “We need to make preparations for our landing. The civilian populace is being held hostage in the capital city, but we’ll be making our way across several kilometers of enemy-controlled terrain before we make it there.”

“Sir,” Cody says. “I’ve reviewed the intelligence. If we land to the west of the city instead of the north, we’ll be able to avoid—”

“I don’t require your input, Twenty-Four,” Kota says. “We will land on the north side and we will eliminate the enemy forces stationed there.”

“Sir, that’s their most heavily fortified position,” Cody says. He can already hear the screams – can already see the broken bodies, cast in molten ruin. His men. His brothers. “If we launch our assault from that side—”

“Our goal is to eliminate the enemy’s stronghold,” Tavik says. “If we succeed in taking the city from the north, then we’ll have destroyed most of their forces in the process. The _Herald_ will be jamming their signal from orbit. They won’t be able to call for reinforcements. Our victory will be assured."

“ _If_ we succeed,” Cody shoots back. “We’ll lose most of our forces along the way.”

“You don’t know that,” Tavik says.

“They have tanks, artillery, and several full platoons stationed every few kilometers,” Cody bites out, careful and controlled, acutely aware of Kota’s stiffening stance. “We’ll have walkers and heavy weaponry, but with the anti-air guns they’ve established, we won’t have access to any air support until we take them out. We can’t bomb them. We’ll have to mount a full-scale assault.”

“Then we make a full frontal assault.” Tavik tilts his head sharply, as if trying to understand how Cody could possibly miss something so obvious. He turns to Kota. “I see what you mean about intellect.”

“Sir,” Cody says sharply, “this strategy will cost us more men than it’s worth. I strongly suggest—”

“Your suggestions are irrelevant,” Kota says. “Our assault will come from the north.”

“Sir—”

Kota rounds on him. For an instant, his silhouette is cast in scarlet. Cody tenses – swallows thickly. “When I require your opinion,” Kota says, “I will ask for it. Do I make myself understood, Twenty-Four?”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says stiffly.

Kota holds his gaze for a beat longer, then turns to Tavik. “Review the intelligence. We will finalize the plan for our assault at nineteen hundred hours.”

“Yes, sir,” Tavik says calmly. “I’ll be prepared.”

They don’t ask Cody to attend the strategy meeting

He shows up anyway.

* * *

“You look like hell.”

Cody bites back a sigh. He wants to say something witty, or, failing that, tell Rex where to shove it, but as soon as he opens his mouth to form the words, they’re gone. His throat tightens.

Rex.

“I know,” Cody says, and scrubs at his eyes. The lighting in his quarters is dim, but it still feels like it’s stabbing into his brain. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

Rex studies him. “How do you like your new general?”

Cody shrugs. “He’s a Jedi,” he says, and tries for a teasing smile. His jaw trembles. He fights the tremor down.

Rex’s brows furrow. He seems to realize what he’s doing, because his face smooths out immediately thereafter. The shift is so comically fast Cody almost laughs. Rex has never been able to lie, least of all to him.

“Where are you headed next?” Cody asks.

“Jabiim,” Rex says, and makes a face. Jabiim is as rich in rain as it is in ore. Cody can’t imagine he’s looking forward to the torrential downpours. “Their Congress has been largely overthrown by the leader of the Jabiim Nationalist Army, Alto Stratus. He’s sided with the Separatists. I’m to be deployed in support of the 43rd Battalion.”

As an ARC trooper and a captain, Rex is on rotation: they send him where they need him when they need him. Special operations soldiers are in high demand. Quietly, Cody thinks it’s a waste of his skills; Rex is a leader at his core. He should be commanding a legion, not acting as auxiliary support.

He doesn’t say any of that, though. He just hopes Rex can’t read it in his eyes. “What do you know about the Jedi leading the campaign?”

“Not much,” Rex says.

Cody arches an eyebrow.

“His name is General Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Rex says. “I’ve heard some of the men call him ‘the negotiator.’”

Great. Another diplomat.

Cody must have recoiled without realizing it; Rex is laughing.

“I’ll be fine, Codes,” Rex says. He cracks a grin – a real grin. There’s a light in his eyes Cody hasn’t seen since before Geonosis. “I trained with the best.”

A lump swells in Cody’s throat. He wants to reach across the stars and pull Rex close, just one more time. “ _K’oyacyi, vod_ ,” he whispers, and bows his head. The hologram flickers. There’s a dim blue glow pressing against Cody’s closed eyes, and he knows Rex is mirroring him on the other side.

“ _K’oyacyi_ ,” Rex repeats.

Stay alive.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege on Galtor VI proceeds. Nothing goes according to plan.
> 
> They have a duty to the Republic. They have a duty to trust and obey.
> 
> That's what Cody keeps telling himself, anyway.

“Come on, Wooley, it’s gonna be _fine_.”

Cody stops halfway to the gunship. Wooley’s perched on a crate with his helmet set beside him. “I know that,” Wooley grouses, and folds his arms more tightly around his torso. His chestplate shifts a few degrees. He makes a disgruntled noise and shifts it back, then fiddles with his vambrace, turning it to and fro. Cody frowns. There shouldn’t be enough space for him to move it at all, but Wooley was assigned when the _Herald_ made a final stop for reinforcements and resupply. He’s now the youngest trooper in the 212th Attack Battalion.

The standard armor’s still too big for him.

Waxer meets his eyes. Cody moves to his side. “Problem?”

“No, sir,” Wooley bites out, and twists his vambrace again. He doesn’t meet Cody’s eyes. “There’s no problem.”

His voice is tight. Shaky. Cody eases onto the crate beside him and glances to Waxer and Boil. They both have their buckets propped against their hips. Boil toys with his. “He’s afraid to get on the gunship, sir,” Boil says at last, when Wooley doesn’t volunteer anything. “This is his first real battle.”

“I’m not afraid,” Wooley snaps.

Cody rests a hand on his shoulder. Wooley stills. “The first one’s always the toughest,” Cody says.

“I’m not afraid,” Wooley repeats lowly. It sounds like a mantra. “This is what we’re made for.”

Cody pats his shoulder pauldron. “That doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Wooley grimaces. “I’m not afraid,” he says again, strained. It sounds less and less like he believes it. “I can do my job.”

“Courage isn’t about never being afraid,” Cody says. “Courage is about mastering your fear. You have to learn when to listen to it and when to push it aside. You have your training and you have your brothers. Rely on both. They’ll carry you through.”

Wooley is silent for a beat. “Yes, sir,” he says slowly, like an exhale. “I will.”

“I know.” Cody stands. Wooley follows suit. There’s an ease to his posture he didn’t have before: steady confidence. “Get onboard that gunship, trooper. I’ll be right behind you.”

Wooley makes his way to the gunship. Cody takes up a place beside him and grasps the troop bay’s overhead rail. The doors rumble closed. The hazard lights snap on, bathing the space in a hazy red glow. An all-clear alarm sounds – harsh through the filters on Cody’s helmet.

Wooley shudders a breath. A hand presses to Cody’s shoulder, there for a beat, and gone again. Waxer’s ritual. Cody nods shortly. The engines roar. Outside, there’s a tremendous groan as the landing bay doors unseal.

“ _Kandosii sa ka’rta_ ,” Cody calls out. In an instant, the air is electrified.

“ _Vode an_ ,” the others chorus all around him, a powerful beat of a single, pulsing heart. In this gunship, and in the others too. Wooley lifts his chin higher. His breathing evens.

Jango taught the ARCs and the commandos the ancient Mandalorian war chant, and when he took charge of the 7th Sky Corps, Cody instructed his battalion commanders, all of them ARCs, to do the same for their men. After Free took it upon himself to make his meaningless sacrifice, and especially since Kota was sent to replace him, Cody’s reiterated its importance. _Recite it_ , he told them. _Before every training exercise. Before every battle._

The _Vode An_ is their spirit and soul. _One indomitable heart: brothers all_.

The gunship rumbles and lifts. It’s smooth going until they hit the atmosphere. The craft shudders with the force of an explosion’s impact. Cody’s blood sings.

“I thought they didn’t know we were coming!” Longshot barks. “Where the hell is the flak coming from?”

More ‘Republic Intelligence.’ If he had the resources for recon, he’d deploy them in a heartbeat. “Just hang on!” Cody shouts back. “The landing site isn’t that far from the point of departure.”

“We have to make it to the ground before I’m gonna worry about anything,” Crys says. The gunship shakes violently. Wooley still hasn’t shut off his helmet comm; his breathing is ragged. Out of the corner of his eye, through the glowing red gloom, Cody can make out Waxer slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Just hang on,” Cody says again, to Crys, to all of them, and curses Kota and Tavik for demanding they attack from the north and the Jedi Council and the Supreme Chancellor for assigning them to his battalion in the first place.

So much for inspiring leadership.

“‘Landing zone’ is gonna be a relative term,” Davijaan informs them, a crackly voice from the cockpit. “The ore deposits are playing hell with the navicomputer.”

“Just get us as close as you can.”

The gunship screams, seething shattered metal, and rocks with an impact. Davijaan adjusts enough to keep them from careening into a cliff-face, but they stutter sluggishly until suddenly they stop steering altogether. The craft hits the cragged earth and bumps and rattles and screeches until it comes to a steaming stop.

“Go!” Cody barks, past the ringing in his ears. “Move!”

They surge out of the gunship. Cody waits long enough to make sure the bay is clear, then charges after them.

The cockpit’s glass is still intact. Davijaan hasn’t ejected.

Cody scales the gunship’s husk and scans the seat for lifesigns. Davijaan’s alive – rattled, maybe, but alive. Cody drives his gauntlet into the glass, shatters it wide, and hauls their pilot out. Halfway to the ground, Davijaan wakes up, flails – realizes – and stops.

“Nice landing,” Cody says.

Davijaan snorts. Cody sets him down and passes him his blaster. The rest of Ghost Company has spread out to provide security; they’re red blips on his visor’s nightvision. The plan had been to land swiftly and silently under the cover of darkness, then march on the city when the enemy least expected it. Cody had had a brief and fleeting moment of hope; maybe if they took the Separatists by surprise, they wouldn’t have time to rally and coordinate their forces in the north before the 212th steamrolled right over them.

He should have known better than to believe in luck.

“Form up,” Cody orders, and the men shift into their fireteams and squads. There are no enemies in the immediate vicinity, no one’s shooting at them, but those anti-air turrets were supposed to be located much closer to the city, almost directly at the enemy’s first line of defense. The landing site was well away from it. Either Davijaan and the rest of the pilots made a grievous miscalculation, or the coordinates Tavik and Kota gave the flight crews were different from the ones discussed at the strategy meeting.

Cody grits his teeth. _Your suggestions are irrelevant_.

He knows which one is more likely.

“Waxer! Boil!”

His scouts jog over. “The general made it down,” Waxer reports. “He and Commander Tavik will be regrouping with us shortly.”  
Cody snaps off a nod. “Get back to your squad,” he says. “Be ready to move.”

His platoon leaders’ reports scroll down one side of his HUD: not everyone is accounted for, and won’t be. They lost at least five gunships on the way down. Cody sets his jaw. Twenty minutes into this campaign. Five gunships full of men gone. What was it he almost told Ghost Company?

It’s more likely that Kota’s going to get a lot of clones slagged on his first mission

The general looks the same as he did when he stepped on the gunship. Tavik, however, is a mess; his uniform is rumpled; he has a cut above his eye that’s leaking a thin trickle of blood.

“Sir,” Cody says evenly, and pointedly ignores Tavik’s scowl.

“Move the units into position and be prepared to march,” Tavik says, without preamble. “I will be located in the command walker. General Kota will act as the company commander. It is your responsibility to see that the platoons maintain the proper pacing and order.”

His men know how to march in formation; they’ve been doing it all their lives. Cody curls his hand into a fist. “It’ll be done,” he says. Tavik narrows his gaze again. Cody meets it squarely, acutely aware that Kota has either not noticed the battle of wills, or just doesn’t care enough to intervene.

“Sir,” Tavik corrects tightly.

He and Tavik are the same rank; per custom, they address one another by their titles. _Sir_. As if.

“Commander,” Cody says instead, and nods slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kota beginning to move off and head to the front of their formation, and suddenly this petty squabble with Tavik means less than nothing. Where Kota goes, Cody goes: if he can’t keep the general away from his brothers, he can at least buffer them. Broken ribs and strangled breaths.

He’ll die before he lets them suffer like that.

“Give the order, Twenty-Four,” Kota says, when Cody comes to a stop beside him. The general’s surveying the field before them, staring into the pitch-black. Cody wonders what he’s expecting to see – wonders if he’s reaching out with that Force – the same one he uses to tell where Cody’s next strike will come from. The same one he uses to sense and shame fear.

In the distance, there’s a dim glow: a gunship that’s gone up in flames. Cody thinks of the men inside, his brothers, lying silent and still as the heat of the fire warps the armor wrapped around their frames. Broken bodies. Molten ruin.

“Company, move out.”

* * *

“A klik and a half and you’ll make contact, Commander. The first line of defense is exactly what and where intel said it’d be.”

Accurate data. That’s a first for Republic Intelligence. “Good,” Cody says. “Hold your position and we’ll pick you up on the way. Keep me apprised of any changes.”

“Will do, sir,” Waxer snaps off. “Waxer out.”

Cody glances at the corner of his HUD and sighs. The scouts are using his individual frequency again, not the command line; the report is addressed to him and him alone: not Tavik, and certainly not Kota. He’s not surprised; they’ve been doing this for the past hour. Cody told them, twice, to use the standard command frequency to transmit mission-relevant data, and then gave up and started relaying it himself: first to his platoon commanders, and then to his superior and his peer. It’s not standard procedure, everything should start at the top of the chain of command and then be disseminated from there, but for once, Cody can’t bring himself to care.

If they’re about to take enemy fire, the men need to know immediately what and where it’s going to be coming from – and how fast.

“General,” Cody says, after he’s transmitted the data to his subordinates and their platoons. “Waxer and Boil report that we’ll be making contact with the enemy is a little less than a klik and a half.”

“Understood, Twenty-Four.”

“They have tanks, sir. We should—”

“When I require your input, I’ll ask for it.”

Cody takes a measured breath. “Sir,” he says carefully. “If we make a full frontal assault, we’ll lose a lot of men, and that will compromise our strength and capability to take the second line of defense. Let me dispatch Foxtrot to disable the tanks. They’ve been trained to—”

“The so-called ‘commandos’ will remain attached to the rest of Ghost Company,” Kota says shortly. “If we dispatch them before we make the main assault, the entire campaign could be put in jeopardy.”

Only if they get caught. “General,” Cody returns, “Foxtrot has been trained to conduct covert sabotage operations. Captain Gregor and his squad can eliminate the tanks and hit the power generator before we arrive. That will prevent the droids from raising a shield over the city outskirts and make our attack much more eff—”

Kota rounds on him. In an instant, he’s mere inches from Cody’s visor. Cody swallows thickly. All around them, the men come to a halt. The walkers’ slow, plodding march stutters and stops. Every pair of eyes is trained on them.

Don’t flinch.

“We will make the attack as planned, Twenty-Four,” Kota says. “Is that understood?”

Breathe. Breathe. “Yes, sir,” Cody says tightly. His throat hurts. “I understand.”

Kota holds his gaze for a moment longer, then straightens to his full height. “We will conduct a full frontal assault and create an opening in the enemy’s primary defenses,” he says. “That is non-negotiable.”

 _“I’m not sure why you think it should be a topic of debate at this point, Twenty-Four,”_ Tavik says. _“The plan was decided before we disembarked.”_

They landed closer than they were supposed to and lost men that would have still been alive had they stuck to the original coordinates. The ones Cody chose. The ones they nodded about and agreed to. Cody should have known better than to have trusted them to transmit the location to the pilots correctly. Of course they would have changed it to make the assault closer and the siege more convenient instead of taking the few extra hours to make a safe, covert landing, and traverse the extra distance that safe landing demanded.

They sacrificed men’s lives for ease and time.

Cody hears the enemy before he sees them. Even past the harsh rasp of his own breath in his ears, Cody knows the sound of a droid armada on the approach.

 _“They’re ready for us,”_ Tavik says grimly. _“They must have seen our gunships.”_

The whole planet saw their gunships because they landed too close. Cody swears under his breath. A tank blast strikes the open plain in front of them, carving a crater and sending up a shower of earth. The Separatists’ first line of defense is located a few kilometers from the capitol. Galtor VI is all crags and canyons. Its population was concentrated in the few cities that exist on this planet; they were heavily fortified to withstand its volatile inclement weather, which made them perfect foundations around which to construct fortresses.

They won’t crack easily.

Cody opens his mouth to order the walkers to halt, establish their artillery, and begin to shell the enemy’s defenses from afar, but as soon as the first note of his voice breaks onto the open comm. line, Kota cuts him off.

“We will charge the line on my mark,” the general says. His lightsaber ignites, green in the hazy gloom. He steps to the head of their formation and lifts the weapon high.

“Charge the line?” Davijaan barks, and Cody’s blood runs cold. “General, _all due respect_ , but we have artillery for a reason. If we charge the line, it’ll be useless. We’ll be in the way.”

Kota turns slowly. Cody whirls about. Davijaan, as the commander of the first platoon, is stationed right behind them. At their shift, he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin.

“What is your designation?” Kota demands evenly, and Cody hears him clearly even though the earth directly behind them is exploding – faster and faster, louder and higher. They’re out of the tanks’ range, but only barely. Cody wonders if the amplification is the Force, or if it’s all in his head, if it’s over the comm, something that makes sense. His heart is in his throat. His blood is pounding in his ears.

“My callsign is Oddball,” Davijaan says. “But my name is Davijaan.”

“I asked for your designation,” Kota says. His tone is calm. Always so calm. Cody swallows against the lump in his throat and wills Davijaan to be quiet. Still. Leave it alone.

“My name is Davijaan,” Davijaan repeats. “That’s my only designation, sir.”

Kota barely moves. His hand flashes up, palm out, and Davijaan is propelled backward. He hits the unforgiving earth with a sickening crack. Cody hears the breath leave his lungs.

“I will not tolerate insubordination,” Kota says. “And I will not compromise this campaign for your objections. I am your commanding officer. It is your duty to obey me. Do I make myself clear, trooper?”

Davijaan wheezes a cough that sounds like a curse. Kota takes one step toward him. Cody flings himself into his path.

“Sir,” he says, more desperately than he means to. “We’re losing valuable time. Every moment we stand here is a moment the Separatists have to realize we’re not advancing. They’ll move their tank line forward and we won’t stand a chance.”

Kota considers him for a moment. Cody makes himself breathe, conscious of Davijaan slowly struggling to his feet. At last, the general turns away. Cody presses a hand to Davijaan’s shoulder – _I’m here_ – and gets a short nod. _I’m okay_. For a blissful moment, Cody feels relief.

It’s painfully short-lived.

“On my mark,” Kota says, and leads the charge.

* * *

“Mirj?”

It takes Cody a moment to see him, through the gloom. The medic is perched on the edge of a supply crate with his elbows braced on his knees and his chin dropped to his chest. He takes a shuddery breath, but doesn’t lift his head. His helmet is at his feet, as if he tore it off and threw it to the ground and doesn’t have the strength to pick it back up. Every line of his frame radiates grief.

“Mirj,” Cody says again, and crouches down in front of him. He pries Mirj’s hands apart and clasps one in each of his own. “Mirj, look at me.”

“He doesn’t care, does he?” Mirj croaks. His lower lip trembles. “He doesn’t care how many of us he gets killed. He only cares about the objective.”

It should strike Cody. He should refute it. But refuting it would be a lie – and Cody will not lie to his brothers. Not even now, in the heat of a siege.

“We have to do our jobs,” Cody says. “Regardless of the cost.”

“If we’d set up the artillery, we could have taken out some of the tanks from a distance,” Mirj hisses. “Davijaan was right.”

Cody presses his eyes closed for a beat. He can still hear the screams. Shrapnel and shards, rent flesh and broken blood: the battlefield is bathed in the shattered remains of his brothers.

“He’s the general,” Cody says gently. “He’s right: it is our duty to obey him.”

“It’s our duty to serve the Republic. We can’t do that if we’re dead,” Mirj snaps.

Cody takes a measured breath. Kota’s approach seems to be to fight tooth and nail across the plains, marching through fire thick and thin and devastating everything that dares set foot in his path. He doesn’t care about the barriers; he doesn’t care about the bodies it costs to break through them.

It’s a brutal way to conduct a campaign.

“We’re just clones to him,” Mirj says bitterly. “Expendable.”

Briefly, Cody wonders where he got the idea that anyone would ever see them as anything else. He wouldn’t have learned it on Kamino. He couldn’t have learned it from Kota or Free. Maybe it’s the medic in him: see the light, save a life.

Cody manages a sliver of a smile. “Not to me,” he says, and Mirj lifts his head to meet his gaze squarely. His eyes bleed open misery.

“We can’t keep taking these kinds of casualties,” Mirj says. “Even if we’re just talking about logistics, Cody: if we lose this many men during the next assault, we won’t have enough power to make it into the capitol, let alone take it.”

“I know, Mirj.”

“The general has to know that too, right?” Mirj asks, and chuffs a hopeless laugh. “He’s a Jedi, right? They’re supposed to be warriors. Of course he has to know that.”

 _He does_ , Cody wants to say, but doesn’t. There’s no use telling Mirj that. “Just follow my lead,” Cody says. “All right?”

Mirj’s face twists bitterly. “As long as I’m alive,” he says. It should sound like a promise. It seems more like a curse. Cody squeezes his hands again.

“Trust me,” he whispers, and hopes he deserves it.

Mirj coughs a sad shadow of a laugh. “I do,” he says. “You know I do. I’d follow you anywhere.”

Something in his voice strangles Cody’s breath.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [jate-kara](https://jate-kara.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr, if you want to come yell about Star Wars with me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregor tilts his head at him. There’s something like disgust in his scowl. “Commander, the only call Kota's made is ‘charge.’ You’re the only reason we haven’t lost the entire battalion.”
> 
> Cody’s sure that Kota knows other strategies besides ‘full frontal assault’; if he really was raised in war, he has to. “The general knows what he’s doing,” Cody says, a long moment later, and hopes he sounds like he believes it. “We have to trust him.”
> 
> Gregor doesn’t look convinced. “They’re not following Kota into battle,” he says. “They’re following you.”  
> \--  
> The siege continues. Cody has a choice to make.

_Kamino, 25 BBY_

“Is that all of them?”

Cody almost doesn’t hear the question over the blood pounding in his ears. His chest is on fire. His bodysuit clings to his skin. His dark curls are matted against his forehead. “I think so,” he says. The answer comes out staggered, broken in two by his uneven breath. He wishes he could tug his helmet off and swipe at the streams of sweat. His eyes sting.

Kamino’s simulation facilities are top of the line and make almost exclusive use of hardlight constructs. The enemies against which Cody’s squad has been battling are little more than holograms given mass and substance; the training arena is littered with their remains. Once Jango or one of the other Mandalorian trainers clears the training program and resets the room, the debris will flicker away in a shower of sparks. For now, however, they linger: all light, no heat.

Rex kicks at one of the droid heads, nudging it along with the toe of his boot. For all of the tension corded through his shoulders, he looks dead on his feet. “He hasn’t ended the exercise yet,” he points out. “Why hasn’t he ended the exercise yet?”

 _Kyr ge’kaan_. Endex. Rex is right: the comm line has been suspiciously quiet. Cody scans their surroundings warily. His fireteams are intact: Valiant, Davijaan, and Grey have taken up security at the rear of their formation; Fox and Wolffe stand strong on either side of Rex, scanning for movement. They’re all on-edge, but none of them betrays any sign of having seen anything shift.

Maybe Jango just forgot to call it.

“Incoming!”

Right. Jango never forgets.

The battlefield shimmers, a roiling wave like a mirage, and transforms. The barricades behind which they’d been shielded disappear. Cody has only a beat to process the loss, that they’re out in the open, completely exposed with a new line of enemies on the approach.

“Fall back,” he barks. “Fall back!”

The initial exercise put them behind the barricades and demanded they fight until they were either overrun or the enemy simply ran out of units to throw at them. Line after line. Blast after blast. Don’t stop. Keep firing. Watch your left. Cody had never stopped moving or calling out targets. The barricades had been their salvation.

And now they’re gone.

“This isn’t looking good,” Grey says. “Squad leader, what are your orders?”

“Keep firing,” Wolffe snaps. “What do you think his orders are?”

A blaster bolt whizzes by Cody’s head. He barely registers it. His finger is on his weapon’s trigger, squeeze, release, squeeze, release. Again. Again.

“So it’s one of those exercises.” Davijaan sounds grimly amused. Cody sets his jaw.

This is not a battle they’re meant to win.

The arena is a finite space. The shift in the terrain and the ensuing enemy onslaught aims to turn it into a killbox. Cody doesn’t stop their retreat until their backs are to the wall and they have no choice but to stand and fight.

These enemies aren’t droids; they’re humanoids, clad in light body armor. Their faces are blank and smooth: featureless and that same bright blue. It’d be exactly like fighting the droids if every blaster bolt Cody delivered to an enemy’s torso didn’t trigger a cry instead of a sizzling mechanical hiss. It’s for the simulation, he knows: to give them as much exposure as possible so that, when they set foot on a real battlefield, they won’t be fazed by the noise.

Still, behind his helmet, he fights not to flinch.

“Cody,” Fox warns. “We can’t hold them off forever.”

“I know,” Cody returns sharply. “Just keep firing. We can do this.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wolffe says. “This is one of Jango’s last-stand scenarios. There’s no _winning_. They’ll close in and they’ll kill us. That’s it. That’s how this ends.”

“If Cody says we can do it, we can do it,” Rex snaps. “Keep firing.”

Cody spares half a second for a glance. Every line of Rex’s stance radiates defiance. He’s unwavering, even in the face of imminent defeat.

It’s belief.

Cody’s throat tightens. “On my mark, follow me,” he says. “We’re going to charge them.”

“You have a plan?” Wolffe asks.

“These are programmed enemies,” Cody says. “They’re good for specific scenarios, but they’re not as adaptable as we are. We get in close, we’ll confuse them. We confuse them, we generate chaos.”

Fox gives a delighted little laugh. “We’re gonna use the program’s rigor against it,” he says. There’s something like glee in his voice. Not for the first time, Cody thinks he might enjoy the adrenaline rush a little too much. “I like it.”

“On my mark,” Cody reminds.

“We’d follow you anywhere,” Valiant says. “Make the call, squad leader.”

Cody’s breath catches in his throat. He swallows it down. “Mark!” he snaps, and with a ragged cry, he charges headfirst into the fray.

His brothers are a solid weight at his back.

Cody drives his fist into an enemy’s faceplate, then spins around to swing a roundhouse kick into another’s ribs. He hears a crack – hears a scream – and presses through. He ducks, spins, dodges, dives, an unrelenting rhythm for a brutal dance.

If they stop, if they rest, if they breathe – they’re dead.

There’s a sharp clap, then a deafening silence, then another sharp clap. Cody delivers a final blow to the enemy before him and whirls about to meet the new threat.

The room shimmers again. The enemies strewn across the floor dissolve. The door to the hall is open. Jango is silhouetted against it. Cody, heaving and streaming, snaps to attention. The others follow suit.

“At ease, cadets,” Jango says, and as one, they slump. Cody sweeps his gaze across them. Rex has an arm wrapped around his chest. Valiant is leaning on Grey to stay upright. Wolffe is two seconds from doubling over. Davijaan looks relatively unharmed, only exhausted. Fox is sucking in desperate lungfuls of air through a grim smile. His eyes glint steel.

Cody looks down at his own hands. They’re raw, beneath his gloves. He’s shaking too, he realizes, though he’s not sure if it’s from adrenaline or exertion or exhilaration.

They won.

“Well done,” Jango says. His eyes gleam pride. Together, Cody’s squad stands a little taller. Jango jerks his head toward the hallway. “Go. Get cleaned up. You’re done for today.”

Cody’s at Rex’s side immediately. “You’re okay,” he says, more like a question than a statement. Rex grimaces and nods.

“I’ll be all right,” he says. “Just took a few more hits than I meant to.”

Cody’s sure he’ll feel the same blows in the morning. Behind Rex, Jango motions him to approach. “Go get cleaned up,” Cody says, and pats his cheek. “You did good.”

Rex’s smile could rival a star.

“You used the program’s rigor against it,” Jango says, once the others have gone. A smirk tugs at his lips. “You really think that’ll work on a real battlefield?”  
“I assessed my opponent and used their weakness against them,” Cody corrects immediately. “They failed to counter in time.”

The smirk blooms into a full smile. “Well done,” he says.

Cody’s heart swells.

“Your squad followed you without question,” Jango says. “That’s good. You have their loyalty.”

He thinks of Rex, stalwart and unyielding. Always so sure at his side. “I want to be worthy of it, sir,” Cody says.

Jango takes hold of his shoulders. Cody meets his gaze. There’s a depth of sincerity to Jango’s eyes. “ _Mandokar_ ,” he says, and thumps Cody’s chestplate. “You have the soul of a True Mandalorian, Kote. Never doubt that, and your brothers will never doubt you. _Ijaat o’r gett’se_.”

Honor in courage.

Cody holds his chin a little higher. “ _Ijaat o’r gett’se_ ,” he repeats, and believes it.

* * *

_22 BBY_

_The Siege of Galtor VI, Day Twenty-two_

“That went better than I thought it would.”

The city’s burning around them. “Sure,” Cody says dryly, and presses a bacta patch to Ijaat’s neck. There’s a nasty burn there – a blaster bolt that almost buried itself in his throat. Cody would call him lucky if commandos believed in it. “Hold still.”

Ijaat stares at him; one eye is green, the other brown. Both are full of fire. Behind him, Jaster, Dral, and Gregor shift uncomfortably. Cody gives them a meaningful look, then jerks his head toward Mirjahaal.

“Go get yourselves checked out,” he says. “Then get some food and some rest. We’re moving again in a few hours.”

“All due respect, sir,” Gregor says, “but Mirj is overwhelmed as it is. We’ll make do.”

Commandos and their damn attitude. “That wasn’t a suggestion, Captain,” Cody says evenly, and Gregor’s eyes soften. He means well, at least. “Move your _shebs_.”

Foxtrot has the sense to obey that part of the order. Whether or not they’ll follow through on the rest of it or just huddle in a corner to tend their own wounds is still up in the air, though, and Cody has neither the time nor the energy to hold their hands and walk them to the nearest medical station. Gregor’s right about one thing.

Mirj is drowning in wounded.

“We don’t have enough supplies for this,” he says, a frazzled blur as he buzzes by Cody to snag a pack of bandages out of a crate. Cody holds out a hand. Mirj stops short.

“How many this time?”

Mirj’s eyes are pained. “Enough,” he says. The ache in his gaze belays his calm tone. “This siege has been going on for too long. We’ve been stuck on this side of the capitol for two weeks.”

Kota presses them on at a relentless pace. Cody doesn’t have to look closely to see the exhaustion in his ranks. It took them only a few days to punch through the first and second lines of the city’s outer defense. The third was smaller; it fell in short order. Only once they reached the capitol was their advance slowed; the Separatists are well and truly dug in here, and pushing through the fortified urban environment has proven to be more difficult than charging headfirst at enemy tanks.

The siege’s success would mean a boost in their resource supply. Cody knows that. Still, seeing the anguish in Mirj’s face, he’s sorely tempted to call the campaign a waste of lives and time.

“I know,” Cody says, and rests a hand on the medic’s shoulder. “I’m working on it.”

Mirj snorts. “I know _you_ are,” he says. “But what about General Kota?”

There’s a soft scuffle behind him, boots on gravel. Gregor’s hovering in the makeshift entrance to the area. His helmet’s tucked under his arm. There’s a quiet command to his presence that Cody appreciates, but today it’s tinted by unease.

“What’s General Kota been saying?” Gregor asks. “If you don’t mind me asking, Commander.”

Kota barely says two words to him about tactics; when he said he expected his orders to be followed without any questions or suggestions, he wasn’t exaggerating. Cody stopped counting the dismissals, but he’ll never let Kota’s venomous disdain dissuade him from strategizing for his own battalion. He was entrusted with their lives. They’re his men, his brothers: not Kota’s.

“The general hasn’t been very forthcoming about his plan of attack,” Cody says carefully. Gregor makes a disgruntled noise.

“He’s not using Foxtrot to its full potential,” he says. “We’re trained as infantry units, but that’s not supposed to be our primary role.”

“I know.”

“If he’d just let us hit the main power generator, we could take the city in half the time and with half the casualties.”

If the main generator goes down, the Separatists lose the ability to activate their ray shields, which means the 212th spends more time blasting droids and less time dying trying to get close enough to scrap them. Cody’s thought of that himself. Kota pushes them, inch by agonizing inch, across the city. He pays no heed to death or screams. There’s only one solace to his so-called strategy, and it’s that he leads from the front.

He has courage, if not compassion or connection.

“I’ll speak to General Kota,” Cody says, and almost adds _again_ before he bites it back. “Either we end this soon, or we’re going to need a resupply.”

Mirj swears under his breath, short and heated and vulgar. “If he didn’t march us straight into the enemy’s artillery fire, maybe we’d have more men right now,” he snarls, and stabs a finger at a corner. There are thin plastic sheets draped over those men – those dead. “I don’t have bacta or blood. I couldn’t treat them.”

Couldn’t save them.

Gregor’s hand settles on his shoulder. Some of the tension in Mirj’s eyes drains away; suddenly, he looks exhausted. So much older. “Let me know what the general thinks about having half a battalion to command,” he says, and picks up his box of bandages again. “Excuse me.”

Cody watches him go.

“We’ve been here for over three weeks,” Gregor says.

“You don’t have to remind me,” Cody says coolly.

Gregor’s gaze is steady. “Let me take Foxtrot to the generator.”

“Against our directive?”

“Are there standing orders against it?"

“No,” Cody says. “But Kota is the ranking officer. All operations are supposed to be cleared through him.”

Gregor tilts his head at him. There’s something like disgust in his scowl. “Commander, the only call he’s made is ‘charge.’ You’re the only reason we haven’t lost the entire battalion.”

Cody’s sure that Kota knows other strategies besides ‘full frontal assault’; if he really was raised in war, he has to. “The general knows what he’s doing,” Cody says, a long moment later, and hopes he sounds like he believes it. “We have to trust him.”

Gregor doesn’t look convinced. “They’re not following Kota into battle,” he says. “They’re following you.”

Cody takes a measured breath. “How sure are you that you can knock out that generator?”

“I’d put all of my credits on it.”

“You don’t have any credits,” Cody says, “so I wouldn’t call that inspiring.”

Gregor flashes him a grin. “You can count on us, Commander,” he says. “We’ll get it done. I promise.”

Cody pauses a moment. Kota said they’d be marching again in a few hours, which means that Foxtrot has a small window to get across the city, infiltrate the enemy command center, destroy the generator, and get back before the general notices they’re gone.

They don’t have time to make it there and back before they’re missed.

“I’ll tell him I sent you on a scouting mission,” Cody says.

Gregor scoffs. “Do you even need a cover story?” he asks. “I doubt he’ll even notice we’re gone. You could tell him we’re dead and he’d believe you. We’re just bodies to him. Whether we’re warm or cold doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Cody says, and grasps his shoulders. “ _K’oyacyi¸vod_.”

Stay alive.

Gregor closes a fierce grip around his wrist. “We’ll be back before you know it,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Cody takes one unsteady breath after the other, willing the surging anxiety in his chest to fade. Kota doesn’t pay attention to them as individuals, but if Cody’s learned one things from their sparring sessions, it’s that Kota can sense their emotions with his Force. Cody’s been careful not to project anything but cool calm in the general’s presence, lest he give himself away.

A well of anxiety would definitely draw his attention.

Cody makes his way across the camp to Kota’s position. He’s at the very front again, standing tall above the exhausted sentries. He doesn’t speak to them, to reassure or deride. He just studies the seething horizon.

“I didn’t request your presence, Twenty-Four,” Kota says, without looking at him. “What are you doing here?”

Cody looks down at the trooper propped against a piece of rubble. He gets a blank and weary stare, so he nudges at a leg with his boot until he manages to provoke a tiny smile. “What’s the situation out there, Gears?” Cody asks, deliberately avoiding Kota’s question. It earns him a slow head turn and a searing gaze. A month ago, he might have deferred. Not today.

 _Ijaat o’r gett’se_.

Cody is no longer afraid of his pain.

“All quiet, sir,” Trapper pipes up from the other side of the rubble. “No droids in sight.”

“Make sure it stays that way,” Cody says, and is relieved to see some spark back in their eyes. “I’m counting on both of you.”

“Aye, sir,” they chorus. Only once the last note fades does Cody meet Kota’s burning rage. It wells around him, boiling red, then settles into a dark silhouette.

“Sir,” Cody greets neutrally, planting his feet wide and lifting his chin. His helmet is tucked neatly beneath one arm. “The wounded are being treated. Mirj said—”

“I am not concerned with your status report, Twenty-Four. I am concerned with taking this city.”

Cody grits his teeth.

“Prepare the platoons for another assault,” Kota says. “We depart immediately.”

“So soon, sir?”

“My orders are not to be questioned, Twenty-Four.”

Cody’s heart twists. “General, if I may,” he says, “the men have had barely an hour’s rest. If you just give them—”

“There is a disturbance in the Force,” Kota interrupts shortly. Cody’s long since learned that that particular tone means he doesn’t intend to explain himself further and is offended that anyone would think to insinuate otherwise. Tavik, of course, is never on the receiving end of it. “Prepare the platoons.”

“The men are exhausted, sir,” Cody repeats evenly. “They need rest.”

Kota moves so swiftly Cody almost doesn’t see it. “Ready the platoons,” he says again, mere inches from Cody’s face.

It’s not a fight he can win, but Cody’s acutely aware that Trapper and Gearshift are hanging on his every word.

 _They’re not following Kota into battle: they’re following you_.

 _Ijaat o’r gett’se_.

Cody lifts his chin and meets Kota’s gaze levelly. For a moment, they’re still: snarling vitriol and stalwart calm.

“Yes, sir,” Cody says, when that scarlet silhouette starts sparking. “Of course, sir. The men will be ready.”

Kota straightens. “See that they are, Twenty-Four,” he says, and holds his gaze for another beat. His eyes are hard, burning. Cody swallows against the lump in his throat. It’s not quite a battle of wills, but it’s close enough to quicken Cody’s pulse.

Just breathe.

At last, Kota turns away.

Cody stays where he is for another second, a deliberate irritant at the edge of the Jedi’s awareness, then moves toward the medical station. He looks back only once.

The sun burns a deathly red dawn, but Trapper and Gears are grinning from ear to ear.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cody blows out a breath. “Rest,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
> 
> “You always are,” Rex says, and closes his eyes. Cody’s heart twists. For a beat, he can’t breathe. He wants to brush his fingers through Rex’s hair; he wants to soothe away the pulsing pain. He wants to tell him that’ll always be true; he wants to tell him he’ll always feel safe.
> 
> Cody props his chin on his arms. “ _Ijaat o’r gett’se_ ,” he whispers.
> 
> Today, it hurts to be brave.

_Kamino, 25 BBY_

“You’re supposed to be asleep.”

Rex’s pod is just above Cody’s. It creaks slightly with shifting weight. “How did you know I was awake?” he asks, a harsh whisper. He pokes his head over the side and Cody finds himself staring into bright brown eyes. “I was quiet.”

Sixth sense, Cody wants to say, as if there’s any logic to that explanation at all. “I just do,” he says instead. “Why are you still up?”

Rex bites his lip, once, and then stops himself. It’s a nervous habit he’s been trying to kick. He thinks it makes him look like a kid. “Can’t sleep,” he says, and shrugs.

It’s a terrible hack at nonchalance. Cody doesn’t mention it. He wants to ask why, but he already knows that answer to that question. Rex stays in his own pod more often than not now, but he’s restless: tossing and turning through the night. Sometimes he seals the pod into the wall; sometimes he leaves it open, staggered with the others.

He’s still not used to sleeping alone.

Cody listens for him. He wants to reach out and wrap Rex up in his arms and hold him close. He wants tell him it’s all right, tell him he’ll always be there beside him: to comb his fingers through his hair and soothe away his fear.

But Cody’s not in the habit of lying to his brothers.

“Did you do your breathing exercises?” Cody asks, past the lump in his throat.

Rex stares blankly at him for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is small. “I did.”

“They didn’t help.”

It’s not a question. Rex nods anyway. His lower lip trembles. “Not really,” he croaks, and clears his throat. “I’ll – I’ll, uh, try again.”

_Come here_ , Cody wants to say, and swallows it down. “Okay,” he says, though he’s not sure if he’s talking to Rex or to himself. Who is he trying to convince? “You do that.”

Rex’s face disappears from his view. The pod creaks again as he settles, then is still. Cody strains in the silence. The rest of their brothers sleep on all around them. For a long time, Cody thinks Rex might have managed to join them.

The sob is muffled, but Cody’s so attuned to Rex’s breathing patterns he hears it immediately. All at once, every mantra and reminder means nothing. Cody jolts upright, throwing his thermal blanket aside and scrambling onto the ladder before he can consciously register his own movement. He scales it in three easy steps and swings onto Rex’s bunk.

“I’m here,” he whispers fiercely, and gathers Rex up in his arms. “I’ve got you, _Rey’ika_. It’s okay. I’m here.”

Rex’s shoulders shake, once, and relax. He heaves a strangled breath against Cody’s chest. “What is it?” Cody asks, brushing his fingers through those soft blond locks. “What’s wrong?”

Rex shudders through another inhale. “Nothing,” he croaks. His voice breaks. He seizes a fistful of Cody’s shirt, as if he’s afraid of letting go – as if Cody will disappear if he lets go. His arm trembles.

“Rex.”

Rex shakes his head. Cody pushes him away enough that he can check him over for injury. Rex hisses. Cody stops.

“What’s wrong with your ribs?” Cody asks lowly. Rex shakes his head frantically. “ _Rex_.”

“I’m okay,” he blurts. “I promise. I just breathed wrong.”

“You were crying,” Cody hisses. “That’s not okay. Let me see.”

Gingerly, Rex lifts up the hem of his shirt. There’s a mottled pattern of black and blue all around his ribcage. Cody doesn’t ask if he went to the medbay for it. Rex hates doctors more than Wolffe does.

“What happened?” Cody asks, when he finally manages to tear his gaze away from the broken blemishes on Rex’s battered skin.

He half-expects Rex to grin sheepishly and mumble something about getting into a too-rough scuffle with one of their brothers, probably Blitz, but Rex just shakes his head again. There’s an odd tension to his frame. Hesitant.

Wrong.

It strikes him breathless. “Did one of the trainers do this to you?” Cody asks.

Rex swallows audibly.

That’s all the answer he needs. Red rage bubbles up in Cody’s chest, poisonous and choking. “Who?” he demands, a heated whisper. His throat is tight. It hurts to speak. He didn’t think he could ever feel so angry. “Rex, who the hell hurt you?”

“It’s not worth it,” Rex blurts. “Please, Cody, just leave it alone.”

“Who did this to you?” Cody repeats. “ _Rex_.”

“Please,” Rex whispers. His voice breaks. There are tears welling in his eyes. He swipes at them viciously, and all at once, the crimson veil falls away. Cody wraps his arms around Rex and pulls him close as gently as he can. It’s late, and this is neither the time nor the place for rage.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and presses a gentle kiss to Rex’s crown. Rex makes an annoyed noise and swats at him. Cody taps the top of his head.

“Sleep,” he says, and forces a smile into his voice. “We’ve got training in a few hours.”

Rex’s breath evens.

Cody’s doesn’t.

* * *

Jango isn’t in the sparring chamber.

Cody’s not surprised. Every now and again, Jango disappears for a few weeks. Whether it’s for a bounty or just because he needs a break from being poked and prodded by the _kaminiise_ , Cody doesn’t know. It could be part of their training regime: expecting the unexpected.

Jango’s not much for headgames, but he does demand adaptability.

His replacement today is Rav Bralor. She’s as no-nonsense as the trainers come, all close-cropped undercut and brisk command. At their entrance, she snaps her head toward the line and, as one, they shift into formation.

“Pair off,” she says. “Ten minutes of warm-up exercises. Twenty minutes of drills. Then return to formation. I will assign you a sparring partner and you will conduct a single round of combat. The victors will pair off with one another. We will repeat this process until only one of you remains. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cody choruses with the others. Rex is trembling at his side, struggling to keep his shoulders back. Struggling to stay upright. Cody squeezes his wrist, once.

“Rex,” he whispers, “are you up to this?”

Rex jerks away as if he’s been burned. “Of course I am,” he hisses. His eyes blaze, suddenly. He takes a few steps back. “Come on. Warm-up exercises.”

Rex’s movements are slow. Painful to watch. Cody cycles through the warm-up circuit at half the pace the others have adopted. Bralor, with her keen eyes and sharp sense, has to have noticed, but the most she does when she passes by is make a minute correction to Rex’s grip on his staff. He obeys numbly.

Cody drives his teeth into the delicate skin on the inside of his cheek. He wants to ask again, or take hold of Rex’s shoulders and say _You shouldn’t do this_ , but the ticking thrum in his chest won’t let him. The choice is Rex’s.

He has to let him stand on his own.

“First pair. Step into the training circle.”

Cody obeys. Rex takes up a position opposite him. They’ve sparred together, many times; Cody knows each of his stances as well as he knows his breathing patterns. When he’s confident, Rex’s shoulders are down and relaxed; when he shifts to the ready, they ripple with a current of tension.

Today, he stands stiffly. His jaw is clenched and trembling. His eyes, usually dancing with mirthful mischief, are glassy and wide. He holds his staff in a white-knuckled grip. Cody twirls his own weapon, once – and waits.

“Begin.”

Cody takes two bounding steps forward and swings a sweeping blow at Rex’s legs. On a good day, Rex would anticipate and evade.

It’s not a good day.

The staff connects with Rex’s shins. There’s a dull crack. Rex’s feet go out from under him. He hits the mat hard. Cody hears the breath leave his lungs in a painful chuff. His next inhale is a wheeze.

“Get up,” Bralor says, sharp but not harsh. “Cadet, on your feet.”

Rex coughs thickly.

“Cadet. I said _on your feet_.”

Rex pushes himself up on one arm, then rolls to the side. He gets his staff braced against the mat and, in one stuttering jolt, lunges upright.

Cody hesitates. Bralor’s presence is a heavy weight behind him. He should press his advantage; he should end the match.

Rex is shaking. His eyes burn with desperate rage. Cody holds. Rex’s throat bobs, once, again. His gaze steels.

Cody knows what he’s going to do before he thinks to try it.

Rex charges at him. His attack is sloppy and badly balanced. Cody deflects the first strike with ease, then takes a swift step backwards to dodge the second. Rex lunges. Cody swings.

Rex hits the mat again. The impact tears a pained cry from his throat, so choked it comes out high and whining. His breath is labored. Stuttering.

He doesn’t get back up.

Cody drops his staff and sprints to his side. “Rex,” he says, falling to his knees next to him and taking hold of his shoulders. “Rex!”

“’m okay,” Rex wheezes. Cody gets an arm behind him and, gently, so slowly, helps him sit up. Rex tries to shove him away; he doesn’t have the strength. Cody swallows against the lump swelling in his throat. Shouldn’t have swung so hard. Shouldn’t have stepped into the circle in the first place. Should have reported Rex’s injury to Bralor and gotten him pulled from the exercise. He’s in no shape to fight.

“Not your fault,” Rex whispers.

“I’m still responsible for you,” Cody hisses.

“It was my call,” Rex snaps lowly. His eyes flash.

Cody bites back a retort and braces Rex’s arm around his shoulders to help him to his feet. When they turn around, Bralor is standing there with her arms folded across her chest.

“Cadet Rex,” she says, and locks her gaze squarely with Rex’s. Cody doesn’t envy him. Her stare is magnetic, unrelenting in its intensity. “Did you report your injury to the proper authorities?”

Maybe she means the Kaminoans, but it’s more likely she’s referring to another trainer. Rex swallows audibly. “No, ma’am,” he says, and Cody’s briefly grateful he didn’t try to deny the injury. Rex clears his throat. His voice is smaller than it should be. “I did not.”

“You better have a damn good explanation for that, Cadet. You know the protocol.”

Rex’s breath hitches. “I was instructed not to, ma’am.”

Bralor narrows her eyes. “By who, Cadet?”

Rex doesn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, Cadet.”

Cody squeezes Rex’s arm – tell her – but Rex just shakes his head. “I was instructed not to report my injury,” he repeats, “or the manner in which I acquired it.”

Bralor’s lips press together in a thin line. Cody can almost see the gears turning in her mind. It could have been another trainer, certainly some of them are ruthless enough, but it’s also completely possible that it was one of the Kaminoans: surgically bruising Rex’s ribs so they can observe his responses, test his reactions, and monitor his recovery after treatment. Bralor can ask the question as many times as she wants and she’ll never get a satisfactory answer. It’s either one of her comrades, or one of the _kaminiiise_ ; she can only dissuade the former, and she doesn’t have the authority to reprimand the latter.

“Report to the medical bay,” she says at last. There’s a hard note to her voice. “Cadet Kote, you will accompany him. I expect a report if there are complications. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cody says, and nudges Rex until he nods. They turn in a slow arc and march, step by shuffling step, for the medical bay. Nala Se’s aide sweeps Rex away. Cody stands uselessly in the middle of the entryway until the aide comes back.

“I’ve initiated a regeneration sequence for CT-7567,” the aide says. “You are free to leave, CC-2224.”

Leave Rex. As if. Cody squares his shoulders. “I’d like to stay until the sequence is done,” he says. “I was instructed to report on any complications resulting from the injury.”

The aide blinks languidly. “Very well,” he agrees, a blank monotone. “You may remain here. I will summon you when you may retrieve CT-7567 and return him to his assigned pod.”

Cody takes a seat in an inconspicuous corner and waits until the aide isn’t paying attention. Then he dashes into Rex’s room.

“Hey,” he says, and flashes a grin.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” Rex says, over the low hum of the regenerator. He’s flat on his back on the regen table, staring into the dim violet light sweeping up and down his frame. Cody can only see his face in profile, but the laughter in his voice is enough to know he’s smirking.

“No I won’t,” Cody says, and drags a chair to his bedside, turning it around so he can straddle it and prop his arms on the back. “Fox does this for Wolffe all the time. I think Nala Se’s given up.”

“The aide hasn’t.” Rex shifts uncomfortably. Cody almost reaches out a hand to still him and stops short; if he does that, he’ll come in contact with the regen field and set off an alarm.

“Feeling better?” Cody asks.

Rex snorts. “I’ve been in here five minutes.”

Right. Cody drums his fingers on the back of the chair. “Try to get some rest,” he says. “You look like you could use it.”

“So do you,” Rex shoots back.

“You can’t even see me from down there.”

“I can hear you,” Rex says. “That’s good enough.”

Cody blows out a breath. “Rest,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“You always are,” Rex says, and closes his eyes. Cody’s heart twists. For a beat, he can’t breathe. He wants to brush his fingers through Rex’s hair; he wants to soothe away the pulsing pain. He wants to tell him that’ll always be true; he wants to tell him he’ll always feel safe.

Cody props his chin on his arms. “ _Ijaat o’r gett’se_ ,” he whispers.

Today, it hurts to be brave.

The regeneration sequence finishes with a harsh shriek. Rex jolts awake. “Easy,” Cody says, and takes his hand. “Easy.”

The aide breezes into the room. He gives Cody a side-eye, then checks Rex over and clears him for discharge. There’s no reprimand.

“Maybe he’s given up too,” Cody says, once the aide is gone.

Rex scoffs and swings his legs over the edge of the table. Cody holds out a hand. Rex takes it without a word.

Cody helps him to his pod and gets him settled, fussing with the blanket until Rex slaps his hand away. “Sorry,” Cody grumbles, and adjusts a corner anyway. Rex scowls.

Cody rolls his eyes. “Get some sleep.”

Rex’s jaw twitches. He must be clenching it. “I just slept,” he mutters. “How much rest do you think I need?”

“More than you’re getting.”

Rex grunts something rude under his breath. Cody ignores it. The silence hangs heavy between them. Rex worries the edge of his blanket. He doesn’t ask the question. He doesn’t make the plea.

Cody hears it anyway.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, “I’m going to stay up here with you.”

Rex’s lips twitch into a smile. “You have to monitor me for complications,” he says. “Remember?”

Cody drapes a careful arm across his chest. “I remember,” he says, and props his chin on Rex’s crown. His throat is tight, suddenly. He squeezes Rex gently.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Rex says quietly. “I told you. It was my call.”

“It was my responsibility to report your injury,” Cody returns, and hopes he doesn’t sound as frustrated as he feels. “I didn’t.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Rex says. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“You could tell me who did this to you.”

“How’s that going to help anything?”

Cody sets his jaw. In the silence, the click of his teeth feels so loud. He fumbles for an answer. The words die on his lips.

Rex is right.

“You can’t protect me this time,” Rex says, and snuggles further down. “Let it go, Codes.”

Even as Cody pulls him close, he knows he won’t.

* * *

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

Cody blinks blearily. Rex was a warm weight pressed against his chest: loose, if not languid. Now he’s curled into a tight ball. His breaths come in short gasps.

“Rex?”

“I’m okay,” Rex croaks. It’s a pained whisper, almost a whimper. “They said I might still have a few muscle spasms.”

Cody pushes himself up on an elbow. “Do you want some more muscle relaxants?” he asks softly.

Rex shakes his head. His eyes are squeezed shut. If Cody strains, he can just make out the telltale glisten of tears, barely glinting in the dim light. Not for the first time, he curses the Kaminoans for using the regenerator instead of putting Rex in a tank. You only get bacta if the benefits of bringing you back from the brink of death outweigh the cost of the medicine. It’s another numbers game Jango doesn’t give a damn about playing.

But Jango’s not here. Cody is.

“I’ll get you some bacta patches,” Cody says. “They’ll help.”

“I’m okay,” Rex says again, more breathless than before. His lower lip trembles. “I’m okay.”

Cody swings out of the bunk and onto the ladder in one easy motion. “I’ll be back,” he says, and scrambles away before Rex has the chance to protest. A hand catches his sleeve on the way down. He pauses.

“I’ll watch over him,” Bacara says. He’s completely alert; he must have been listening for Rex too. “Go get the bacta.”

Cody squeezes his shoulder. Bacara doesn’t let go of his shirt.

“Be careful,” he says, and holds Cody’s gaze until he gets a nod. There’s a weight to his words that sends a chill down Cody’s spine. He shakes it off, then slings a small satchel over his shoulders on the way out the door.

He has a job to do.

This late, the sterile halls are lit only by a faint off-white glow. It makes the space feel liminal, like he shouldn’t linger too long in one corridor or another. Cody shakes his head. It’s just darker. Nothing’s changed. Same Tipoca City. Same patrol schedule.

Same path to the medbay.

Nala Se is hunched over a workstation. Her screens are filled with data: graphs and charts and what looks like a report. Cody’s tempted to try to get a glance at it; it’s not often that any of them gets a glimpse into her mind – but Rex needs bacta, and that’s more important than curiosity or petty slivers of revenge. Cody curls his hand into a fist at his side and breathes. Waits. Breathes.

Now.

As soon as Nala Se turns to her station again, Cody darts past her, swift and silent, and ducks into the adjoining room. The door seals shut. He holds his breath and waits for it to open again, waits for Nala Se to hover over him with those cold, unblinking eyes and demand to know what he’s doing in a restricted area after-hours. His heart hammers in his ears. Be careful, Bacara said. Get caught, get reconditioned.

Jango’s not here to save him.

There are no ominous footfalls. The door stays shut. Cody breathes a soft sigh of relief and moves across the room to the supply cabinets. He remembers exactly which shelf the bacta patches are on. He was just in here last week, getting one for Gree after Nala Se told him the burn on his arm didn’t warrant anything more than a thin layer of antibiotic cream. Cody stows a hefty stack in his satchel and secures it.

There’s only silence beyond the door. Cody takes one breath, two, and opens it. His heart leaps into his throat.

Nala Se is gone.

Cody sweeps his gaze around the room. She’s not lurking in any corners, but she could be anywhere outside the door. Maybe she’s noticed her supply of bacta patches has been dwindling faster lately and decided that tonight is the night to find out why. No, Jango has told her to her face that he takes them when he needs them and doesn’t elaborate on what they’re for. Maybe she went to get some test material.

That’d be too lucky.

“Well,” Cody mutters, “you can’t stay here.”

He swipes his hand over the sensor. The door slides open.

The corridor is completely empty.

Cody doesn’t take the time to consider his good fortune. He clutches the strap of his satchel and dashes down the hall. Two more turns and a final stretch, and he’s back in the sleeping chamber: Rex will have his bacta, and no one will be the wiser.

His path takes him past the training room. This late, it should be empty. Cody’s so focused on keeping his footsteps soft that the ragged scream streaks down his spine like lightning. His nerves spark and sear. Jango would tell him to wait, would tell him to hold, would say sometimes he thinks more with his heart than with his head, but all Cody can see is Rex, battered and whimpering and heaving his breath through grit teeth.

He charges through the door.

A trainer stands tall in the center of the training circle, staff in hand. There’s a clone doubled over in front of him – one of the commandos, Cody realizes. His curls are matted to his forehead, caked in sweat and blood. He has one hand pressed to his ribs; the other is wrapped around the staff he’s using to stay upright. His face is lifted to meet the trainer’s unrelenting stare.

“Yield,” the trainer says.

The commando’s lips curl into a sneer. He doesn’t say anything, he’s breathing too hard to speak, but even from a distance Cody can read the insult in his eyes.

He has no intentions of giving up.

The trainer draws his staff back. The commando doesn’t flinch. His eyes burn

with the same desperate rage Cody read earlier in Rex’s gaze.

That’s enough. That’s too much.

Cody crosses the space in three sprinting strides and throws every ounce of his bodyweight into the trainer’s side. The man either didn’t notice his entrance or didn’t anticipate his intervention, because the blow staggers him. Cody seizes his staff and tears it away, then drives two quick strikes into his torso. The trainer stumbles.

For the first time, Cody gets a good look at his face.

He knows Walon Vau by name and reputation only. The stories that circulate in Tipoca City call him brutal, cold, and cruel. His aim, they say, is to be a nightmare: if he’s the most terrifying trauma they ever face, then any other pain will pale in comparison. It’s a stark contrast to Jango’s warmth and pride.

It’s what drove the bruises into Rex’s side.

Cody hopes Vau can read the hatred in his eyes. His heart pulses – pounds. His lungs are on fire. The crimson veil falls and seethes and stays.

Vau straightens and considers him for a moment. “CC-2224,” he says, voice thick with disdain. There’s a dangerous undercurrent to his words. “Jango’s protégée.”

Cody sets his shoulders back. “The match is concluded,” he says. He’s said those words so many times they feel rote.

“The match is over when I say it’s over, and not before.”

“He needs medical attention,” Cody says.

Vau narrows his eyes. “Stand aside, cadet,” he says. His jaw twitches. “That’s an order.”

Vau is his superior; he should be duty-bound to obey. Cody’s grip on the staff trembles. _Ijaat o’r gett’se_ , Jango said, _mandokar_ , Jango said, but a True Mandalorian does not revel in blood spilled beyond the field of battle.

There’s no honor in brutalizing defeat.

Cody lifts his chin and locks his stance. “No, sir,” he says. His grip on the staff stills. His breath evens. His racing heart slows. He steels his gaze. “I refuse.”

For an instant, Vau is deathly silent. Then, slowly, he moves to the other side of the room and selects another staff. Behind him, Cody can hear the commando’s breath hitch.

“If it’s a fight you want, Twenty-Four,” Vau says, “then it’s a fight you’ll get.”

Cody takes a steadying breath. Vau’s silhouette sparks crimson: blistering rage. He crosses the space between them with a speed and grace that belies his age. Cody parries the first strike without giving ground, but Vau has him beat in strength, size, and experience. One slash, two, and Cody’s on the defensive. It’s a flurry of movement, brutal and unrelenting.

Cody doesn’t remember the first swing he fails to stop.

He just remembers the pain.

* * *

“Took you long enough to come around.”

Cody blinks against the boring bright and scrubs at his eyes. His body feels heavy. Sluggish. His skin is clammy. Cody scrubs at that, too. The air is clean and cool – sharp with the scent of antiseptic, and something else. Fainter. Blue.

Bacta.

“Rex,” Cody chokes, and jolts upright. It sends a flare of fire through his torso. He swallows a cry, fumbling at the hands trying to push him back down. He has to get up. He has to get back. “Rex needs—”

“Rex got his bacta patches,” Jango says calmly. “Bacara found them in the sparring chamber when he went looking for you.”

All at once, the tension holding him up sweeps away. Cody sags. Jango catches him and eases him back onto the pillows. “Stay there,” he says. His voice is gentle. Too gentle. Cody tenses.

Jango’s hand closes around his. “It’s all right,” he says quietly.

He knows.

Cody doesn’t mean to breathe a sigh of relief, but it explodes out of his chest anyway. Jango’s grip on his hand tightens. Squeezes. Stays. “You’re not upset with me,” Cody blurts, and it’s a statement, but it feels more like a question. “For disobeying orders.”

Jango’s silent for a long beat.

“You’re a soldier, Kote,” he says at last. “Not a drone. Your orders should never outweigh our code.”

Cody swallows against the lump in his throat. “Is the commando all right?”

Jango jerks his head toward the door. “He’s been waiting to see you,” he says, and with a final pat to their joined hands, pulls away and stands. There’s something like pride in his eyes, there for a beat and then gone. “I’ll send him in.”

The door hisses open. Jango says something softly to someone out of sight, then disappears.

For a second, the entrance is empty.

There’s a soft shuffle. The commando appears in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. His gaze flicks to Cody’s. Cody gives him a warm smile.

It breaks whatever barrier was holding him in place. The commando crosses the space between them and comes to a stop at Cody’s bedside.

“Thank you,” he says. His brown eyes are dark with sincerity.

Cody holds out a hand. The commando grasps his wrist firmly. Cody seizes his gaze. “You would’ve done the same for me,” he says, and believes it completely. Classes and conflict aside, at the end of the day they’re brothers all the same.

The commando nods shortly. The tension in his shoulders slips away. There’s a softness to his smile, thoughtful and quiet. It reminds Cody of Gree. “I’m Gregor,” the commando says. “What’s your name?”

“Cody,” he says, and squeezes Gregor’s wrist again. “It’s Cody.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ijaat o'r gett'se_ : honor in courage
> 
> I'm [jate-kara](https://jate-kara.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cody remembers a hand on his shoulder, a warm smile and a serious gaze. Soldier, not drone: when all else fails, he has his honor and his code.

_22 BBY_

_The Siege of Galtor VI, Day Twenty-Two_

“We’ve got a situation, Commander.”

“What do you see, Waxer?”

Waxer’s quiet for a moment. Either he’s switched channels to talk to Boil privately, or he’s stopped breathing altogether. Cody counts two footsteps for every beat of uncertain silence. His platoon marches behind him. It’s a heavy reassurance. He wonders, between breaths, how many of them won’t be marching back out with him.

Wonders if he’ll be with them at all.

“The Separatists,” Waxer says at last. “They’ve fortified the capitol.”

“We knew that going in,” Cody says, and waits. The silence strains again. His heart twists. “Waxer?”

Waxer inhales sharply. There’s a soft scuffle, as if he’s flat on his stomach peering over a ledge and shifted himself forward just enough for his armor to scrape the rough rubble beneath him. “The intel said the civilian populace was being held hostage in the capital city,” he says, and Boil grunts something unintelligibly vulgar in the background. “That’s not…completely accurate.”

“The Separatists are using them as living shields,” Boil growls. “They’re lined up in front of the shield generator. They put the tanks behind them. We can’t breach the shield without hitting them in the process.”

Cody’s heart stops. The path into the capital is wide, but comes to a bottleneck at its heart. The Separatists collapsed any auxiliary routes to the central bastion and then dug in deep. Republic Intelligence said the planet’s small civilian populace had been herded into holding cells there. Not ideal, if the Separatists saw the attack coming and decided to cut their losses and the citizens’ throats, but certainly better odds for survival than holding your arms high in front of a tank and praying that the gravel digging into your knees wasn’t the last thing you felt before you died.

“What are your orders, Commander?” Waxer asks quietly.

Cody swallows against the lump in his throat. “Hold your positions,” he says. “Keep me apprised.”

Neither Waxer nor Boil was using the command channel. Cody switches his audio off for a second and takes a deep breath. Two. Again. Kota is in charge of the march on the city. Deploying Foxtrot to take out the main generator behind his back is one thing. Shifting the entire battalion’s approach is another. He’s arrogant, but he’s not stupid.

“Sir,” Cody says. “My scouts have reported in.”

“Funny,” Tavik says. There’s a mechanical tinge to his voice; he’s eschewed a helmet or an earpiece in favor of the comm built into the AT-TE’s systems. That puts him, and by extension everyone else involved in the conversation, on the general battalion frequency. Everyone can hear them. Cody doesn’t have to wonder if it’s purposeful. “I didn’t receive an update.”

“The Separatists are using the civilians as living shields,” Cody says, instead of answering him. “They citizens are lined up outside the ray shield, in front of the tank line. We won’t be able to move in to hit the tanks without catching them in the crossfire.”

Kota’s devastatingly silent for a long beat. Out of the corner of his eye, Cody can see his silhouette sparking: shimmering a poisonous shadow of the crimson sky beyond. Slowly, he raises his hand, palm out, and halts the platoon’s march.

The men come to a stop.

“The disturbance,” he murmurs, almost too low for Cody to hear. He’s completely still. Cody waits. Braces. His fingers curl closer to his blaster. Tavik snorts.

“This isn’t the first report we’ve had of the Separatists using living shields and it won’t be the last,” he says. “We have to take the capitol, General. We can’t come to a standstill every time the enemy decides to make creative use of their prisoners.”

The war is young, yet. That’s a hell of a precedent to set. “Sir,” Cody says, despite the ticking thrum in his chest. “I recommend we hold our position. My scouts can continue to gather intel. Maybe there’s another way.”

“We don’t have time for a lengthy scouting expedition,” Tavik says. His words carry enough harshness to turn the transmission tinny. “It is absolutely critical that we take Galtor VI. We’ve already all but lost Jabiim. Our supply lines can’t sustain another blow of that magnitude.”

It knocks the breath out of Cody’s lungs. His chest is tight. Jabiim.

Rex is on Jabiim.

He didn’t receive that update, or any of the others; clearly, Kota and Tavik have access to information he doesn’t. “Sir,” Cody says, as evenly as he can. Rex is out there, alone. Rex can stand on his own. “We can’t just blow through a line of civilians. It’s contrary to every intergalactic doctrine on honorable warfare.”

“The Separatists no longer recognize those doctrines, Twenty-Four,” Tavik returns icily. “General, I recommend we proceed.”

Cody opens his mouth to protest. Kota holds up a hand.

The words die in his throat.

“We have to take the capitol,” Kota says. “We will continue as planned.”

He raises his arm and motions the platoon to move ahead. Cody hesitates a beat, only a beat, then rushes after him.

“Sir,” he says, falling into step beside Kota. “I’ve deployed Foxtrot to destroy the main generator. If we delay our advance briefly, it will give them the chance to knock out the shield’s power supply. The civilians are being held immediately in front of the tanks, so they won’t be caught in their firing line. I can deploy two squads to destroy the tanks. The wreckage will provide enough cover for us to evacuate the hostages.”

Kota jolts to a stop so suddenly Cody almost trips trying to mirror him. “You what?” he demands.

Cody’s heart is in his throat. At his silence, Kota leans toward him: mere inches from his faceplate. Cody breathes – in, and out. In, and out.

Don’t flinch.

“You _what?_ ” Kota hisses.

“I deployed Foxtrot to the capitol,” Cody repeats. “They have been tasked with destroying the main generator.”

“They’ll never make it,” Tavik interposes. His voice comes through the comm in a harsh crackle. “Why weren’t we consulted, Twenty-Four?”

Ghost Company is a heavy presence behind him. Kota’s gaze burns. Cody squares his shoulders. “I made a tactical decision regarding a unit under my direct command, General,” he says. “I was well within my authority to do so.”

Kota’s lips curl back in a sneer. “You have no authority here,” he says, and straightens. “Company, advance!”

Kota steps forward.

Cody doesn’t.

It takes Kota only two paces to turn.

The tanks stand silent. The men are motionless. Kota’s jaw twitches. His silhouette sparks, faster, faster. Burning red, like the sky beyond. He curls his hand into a fist at his side and sweeps his gaze across their lines, searching for a connection to make a foothold.

The air’s so still it bleeds.

His scowl comes to a slow and decisive stop on Cody.

“Twenty-Four,” Kota grits out, and crosses the space between them in a few short strides. Cody’s breath catches in his throat. He forces it through. Kota’s a mere foot from him, towering fury. “Commence the march.”

The horizon is on fire. Cody remembers a hand on his shoulder, a warm smile and a serious gaze. Soldier, not drone: when all else fails, he has his honor and his code.

Cody levels his gaze. “No, sir,” he says. “I refuse.”

Kota’s silhouette surges, a scream to a shattering shriek. Cody’s ears are ringing. His pulse pounds against his skull. A morbid pressure creeps into his throat. His fingers are numb. His blaster clatters uselessly away.

He can’t breathe. Cody rips his helmet off and stumbles half a step forward. The earth is rushing, the earth is close. He doesn’t feel the impact. He doesn’t feel the unforgiving stone, stained with blood, sharp like bone. Molten ruin and shattered shards. His brothers, cast in final, fatal light.

“I said,” Kota bites out, “commence the march.”

The pressure in his throat releases. His lungs explode. Cody doubles over.

“No, sir,” he croaks. “I refuse.”

An invisible hold wraps around his collar and jolts him upright. He hangs there, motionless in the seething madness. Kota is a nexus of chaos. Inch by trembling inch, Cody lifts his chin. For a moment, their gazes lock. For a moment, they’re still: snarling vitriol and stalwart calm.

There’s a flash of silver. Cody has just enough time to register _blade_ before the strike meets its mark and cleaves, jagged and deep. The scream swells and pulses and breaks free. He can’t breathe. He can’t see.

The sky burns a deathly, broken red.

Cody presses a hand to the side of his face. His glove comes away wet. It’s not the sun, casting that crimson haze: it’s blood.

“Commence the march,” Kota barks, distant over the cacophonous din. Cody rasps an unsteady breath and drives his palms into the earth.

Get up.

“Sir, we can’t fire on civilians,” Davijaan snaps.

“It is your duty to obey me, not question my orders,” Kota snarls. “I am the ranking officer. Commence the march.”

For a beat, through the haze, the silence screams. Cody curls his fingers into fists and struggles to lift his head. His skull is heavy; his arms shake.

Get up.

“No, sir,” Davijaan repeats, with a voice like steel, and in three short motions, disables his blaster and throws it to the ground. “I refuse.”

There’s a raucous clatter. Cody strains against the crimson sun. Scarlet sparks from Kota’s silhouette; the storm gathers, and rises, and grows. Cody opens his mouth to cry out. The words stop in his throat.

His brothers stand silent, disarmed. Davijaan lifts his chin and pulls his helmet away.

“No, sir,” he says, and the storm breaks; the others thunder the same. “I refuse.”

Cody feels a surge of warmth, a brutal, bloody pride, and then he feels nothing at all.

* * *

He doesn’t remember the fall.

“Easy,” Waxer says, a distant voice through the haze. Cody blinks blearily until his face comes into focus. It’s pinched. Tired.

“What happened?” Cody croaks.

Waxer presses one hand to his chest and the other to his back, and eases him down onto his pillows. There are four of them tucked around him. Medbay regulation is one. Cody wonders, briefly, who was daring enough to steal from Mirj’s supply closet –then realizes.

There were no pillows on Galtor VI.

“The siege,” Cody croaks, and tries to jolt upright again. Waxer’s hands are firm on his shoulders.

“Easy,” he repeats. “It’s all right, Commander. You’re back on the _Herald_.”

“I noticed that,” Cody snaps. His chest hurts. The left side of his face is numb. Heavy. He presses his palm to it. It’s soft – too soft. Gauze. Cody drives his fingernails beneath the tape securing it. Too numb. Too itchy. Damn it.

“Commander,” Waxer says, almost like a reprimand, and guides his hand back onto the bed. “If you sit still for a minute, I’ll explain.”

“Where’s Boil?” Cody asks. He’s never seen one without the other: always _Waxer and Boil_. His heart twists. “Is he—”

“Boil’s fine,” Waxer interrupts. “He’s waiting outside. Mirj didn’t want a lot of us to be in here, and if he made an exception for Boil, he’d have to make exceptions for everyone else too.”

Cody lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and lets Waxer settle him again. Once he’s satisfied with the state of Cody’s pillows, Waxer sits back. His jaw twitches.

“What do you remember?” he asks.

Cody’s hand goes to his temple again. Finds that gauze again. That persistent itch. He drives his nails into the tender skin around it. “A knife,” he says. He hadn’t even known that Kota carried one. He should have noticed. Should have seen it. Should have been ready for it. Expect the unexpected. Your enemy isn’t going to warn you: they’re just going to kill you. “I remember – the knife.”

“You collapsed,” Waxer says. His throat bobs. “…after.”

“The siege,” Cody reminds.

“We won,” Waxer says shortly. He hasn’t let go of Cody’s hand. His grip spasms, once. Cody’s struck with the urge to sit up and pull him close and tell him it’s all right, but his head is too heavy and Waxer is too tired. Best to stay put. “After you collapsed, Mirj got you onto a walker. The rest of us held our position until the shield went out, then took the capitol. Foxtrot knocked out the tanks. We got the hostages out. No civilian casualties.”

There’s a note of pride in his voice. “Good work,” Cody says, and is rewarded with a ghost of a smile. It doesn’t ease the tension ticking his chest. He remembers the haze – remembers the sky ablaze – remembers his brothers standing strong behind Davijaan and throwing their weapons to the bleeding earth.

Clones don’t get transferred; they get reconditioned or decommissioned. In that world, defiance is a death sentence.

“Waxer,” Cody says quietly. “What happened?”

Waxer considers him for a moment. Cody squeezes his hand.

“Wooley happened,” Waxer says at last. “Tavik put your conversation on the general battalion frequency. We might be duty-bound to obey orders, but if those orders go against the Republic’s warfighting doctrine, our regs say we’re required to refuse them.”

Cody’s seen a lot of shinies; it’s not uncommon for them to commit their regulation manuals to memory. Wooley, however, takes it farther than most. Cody’s not sure if it’s an attempt to impress him or just a desperate grab at something that might make this war make sense somehow, but whatever the case, Wooley has developed a penchant for learning the supplementary material. Since he was assigned to the 212th, he’s gone through every piece of literature Cody’s uploaded to his datapad in painstaking detail, including the warfighting doctrine most new troopers just skim.

“Wooley opened a channel to Admiral Block and broadcasted the whole thing over the comm,” Waxer says. “Block contacted Kota and told him to stand down. Tavik quieted down after that. Commander Davijaan took point, and we took the capitol building. Galtor VI is under Republic control.”

A shudder shivers down Cody’s spine. “Kota just stood down?”

Waxer shrugs. “He might not think much of us, Commander, but he knows when he’s outnumbered.”

They’d never be able to stand against a Jedi without serious repercussions if that stand wasn’t sanctioned. Cody feels a surge of gratitude for Wooley – and for Block. “Where is Kota now?” Cody asks carefully.

Waxer snorts. “He spent the first few hours onboard in a meeting with the admiral,” he says. “After that, he went to his quarters. Haven’t seen him since. Word is we’re making a stop to resupply – and that Kota’s being reassigned.”

Cody’s heart jolts. “Reassigned,” he says, and dares, for a broken breath to hope. No more sparring. No more bruises. No more blows. No more fear, slithering beneath his skin like poison and welling up in his throat. “We’re getting a new general?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Waxer says carefully. “That’s just what the rumor is. I do know one thing, though, and that’s that Block definitely isn’t happy.”

“With Kota,” Cody says slowly.

A smirk plays across Waxer’s face. “With Tavik, either,” he says. “You were in and out for the last few hours of the siege. Once we got back to the _Herald_ , Tavik went off on Block. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if we got rid of him too.”

There’s something like glee in Waxer’s voice. “Let’s just take it one thing at a time,” Cody says. “We’ll worry about changes in the chain of command later.”

Waxer sobers. “Right,” he says. “Right. Can I send the others in?”

“If Mirj gives the okay.”

Mirj’s approval doesn’t extend to six of them flooding the room at once, Cody’s sure, but he can’t bring himself to reprimand them when, for the first time in almost a month, there’s genuine joy behind their smiles. Maybe it’s borne of relief: because of Cody’s survival, or because of the rumors, or because they’re finally away from that cragged hellhole.

He wants to mirror that joy. He tries. The smile aches. Feels empty.

It’s a long few hours before he’s left alone to read the report on Jabiim.

The official accounts call it a defeat; staring at the hard numbers, Cody’s sure a more accurate word is ‘catastrophe.’ The Republic sustained heavy casualties. The 43rd Battalion has been completely annihilated, along with most of the Jedi masters and padawans attached to them. One Jedi General Anakin Skywalker was recalled to Coruscant by the Supreme Chancellor in the campaign’s twilight. The leader of the effort, the High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi, rushed headfirst into enemy fire to drag troopers clear of a burning AT-TE. It exploded while he was inside it.

Rex, denoted ARC, special operations support, has been classed KIA.

Cody’s heart is in his throat. His eyes burn and stream. He swipes viciously at them. His breath hitches. Holds. For a second, all he knows is desperation. He wants to throw the thin medbay covers aside and go to Block and plead with him to plot a course to Jabiim. He wants to put his boots on that bloody ground and march until he finds his brother’s body and he can cradle him close and bring him home. Rex deserves better than an unmarked grave in the middle of a flooded field rife with flesh and reeking of rot.

But the war won’t stop for one man, and deploying the 212th Attack Battalion to recover their brothers’ twisted corpses would be a fool’s play. Impulsive. Selfish. The enemy’s leader, Alto Stratus, was killed in the Republic’s last stand. The Jabiim Nationalist Army, however, is still very much intact. The Republic doesn’t have the resources to commit to a campaign that won’t yield any tangible gain.

Cody rattles an unsteady breath and presses his palm to the datapad. He’s been so caught up in his own chaos that, untouched, it’s gone to sleep. In its darkened screen, he catches sight of his face. Half of it is covered in gauze.

Shielded or not, the tears fall the same.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to [phantom_of_the_keurig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantom_of_the_keurig/pseuds/phantom_of_the_keurig), without whom I would never have finished this chapter.
> 
> I'm [jate-kara](https://jate-kara.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three days, the silence feels routine.
> 
> Cody checks on his men, fills out his reports, and keeps well away from the end of the ship in which Kota’s quarters are located. With the siege’s end, and a Republic victory, there’s more than enough work to keep his hands and mind busy.
> 
> If he’s moving, he’s not thinking. And if he’s not thinking, it doesn’t hurt.

_23 BBY_

_Kamino_

“You know you’re not supposed to be up here.”

Rex snorts and pats the space beside him. Cody pulls himself the rest of the way up the maintenance ladder and crawls across the convex curve of the roof. It’s one of Kamino’s rare clear days: the sun peeks through the passing clouds, casting gold across the grey sea.

“Why would you want to stay inside?” Rex asks, once he’s settled. “It hasn’t been this sunny for months.”

“You have studying to do,” Cody chides. “We have another—”

“We always have a test,” Rex interrupts. There’s a roiling restlessness to his voice; more and more, lately, he’s been deviating: defying convention. He resolves brilliant solutions to tactical situations the Kaminoans once called unsolvable. Cody’s as fiercely proud of him for it as he is afraid of the attention it might draw. The Kaminoans are fascinated by divergence and obsessed with outliers. Fit in, stay quiet, stay in line, and they leave you alone. Stand out, stand above, and there’s a good chance you’ll walk into a sterile white room and never leave. Cody toes the line more than he should, he knows, but Rex?

Rex has completely forgotten it exists.

Cody reaches over and ruffles his hair. Rex shoves him away. “Hey,” Cody says. “What is it?”

Rex rolls his shoulders in a shrug, then pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. His eyes flutter closed. The breeze is warm and salty, tousling his hair. He takes a deep breath and holds it. Memorizes it.

“What happens after?” he blurts.

“What?”

“The war,” Rex says. “The one we were made to fight. What are we going to do when it’s done?”

Cody’s wondered the same question, late at night: staring at the ceiling with blurry, sleep-reddened eyes. War gives them purpose; when it comes they’ll be ready. Trained to fight; born to die.

No one ever talks about what they’ll do if they survive.

“Go on, I guess,” Cody says slowly. “What else?”

“That’s not good enough.”

“ _Rex_.”

Rex snaps to face him. His eyes blaze. He doesn’t speak. Cody holds his gaze. “We’re soldiers,” Cody says. “We have a duty. That’s all.”

Rex scoffs and turns away. His fingers curl into a fist. “I know that,” he says tightly. “And I want to do my duty. I just – I just wonder sometimes.”

There’s a painful weight in Cody’s chest. “About what?” he prompts, when Rex doesn’t continue on his own.

“If I’ll ever see Mandalore,” Rex says, soft like an exhale, explosive like a bomb.

Cody’s breath catches in his throat.

“Tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Rex whispers.

He has, more than he thinks he should. And every time he tells himself what he knows he has to tell Rex: that they were forged as warriors and that their place is, and always will be, on the front lines. There’re no rolling hills in their future. No peaceful quiet. No eternal sky.

“We were made for this,” Cody says, and believes it. He doesn’t have to ask where Rex learned to think to ask about Mandalore. “Everyone has a path, Rex. This is ours.”

“It’s just—”

“Jango’s stories. I know.”

He doesn’t mean to derail them; Jango’s priority is to prepare them for the battles ahead, not plant doubt in their minds. But it’s Rex; of course he’s considered it. Turn it over and tear it apart. Understand it from the ground up.

Rex leans back and rests his weight on his palms. He lifts his face to the sky. For a moment, there’s only the lap of the waves at the platform supports far below.

“So you have thought about it.”

Most of them have, at least once. Cody shrugs.

“That’s not an answer, Codes.”

Cody sighs. “What do you mean?”

Rex’s eyes bore into him. “When you can’t sleep,” he says. “What do you do?”

Run over tactical simulations. Count to a thousand in another language, and back again. Recite the _Resol’nare_ : the six tenets of the Mandalorian creed.

And bury it deep.

“I think about something else,” Cody says, instead of that, and shoves him playfully. “Like what you might be getting into when I’m not around.”

Rex knows him too well to believe it, but he doesn’t call him on it. He just arches one eyebrow and scoffs. “We have our brothers,” Cody says. “And we have our purpose.”

“That’s more than most people ever manage,” Rex says, like he’s finishing a recitation. In some ways, he is. The trainers, Mandalorian or not, have drilled those words into all of them. Directive and drive: most beings don’t achieve that in a lifetime.

Cody’s grateful for the grounding.

“The war,” Rex says, and leans forward to prop his chin on his knees. “Who do you think we’ll be fighting?”

Cody shrugs again. There is no galactic war right now, Jango told them, but he also says that war takes many forms. There doesn’t have to be a formal declaration for there to be conflict, and the Republic has enough enemies in the Outer Rim that there’s bound to be a hell of a fight at some point.

“Pirates, maybe,” Cody says. “Insurrectionists. Smugglers. Whoever the Republic needs us to.”

Rex coughs a laugh. “Pirates,” he says. “You think a pirate would hijack a Republic transport?”

“If they’re stupid enough.”

Rex rolls his eyes. “If things get too quiet, they’ll probably put us on some kind of guard duty.”

“Fox would hate that,” Cody says. Fox is always moving: always restless and charged and ready to fight. He craves challenge as relentlessly as Gree craves knowledge. Putting him in an office, handing him a datapad, and telling him to fill out forms and monitor logistics would be like a death sentence.

“So would Davijaan,” Rex says. “Think he’ll still get to fly if we’re stuck on Coruscant?”

“You have to do maneuvers sometime,” Cody says. “He’ll be grounded more than he’ll like, though, unless they put him on some kind of military freighter.”

“He’d hate that more than being grounded.”

With a burning passion. Cody shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out when the time comes,” he says. “Right now, I’m more worried about that test.”

Rex blows out an enormous breath. “Fine,” he says, but makes no move to get up. “We can run over the formations a few more times. If it’ll make you feel better.”

It would. But there's less tension wrapped around Rex’s spine than when Cody first climbed up beside him. He looks, for the first time in months, actually relaxed.

“A few more minutes won’t hurt anything,” Cody says, and scoots close enough to sling an arm around his shoulders.

This time, Rex doesn’t pull away.

* * *

22 BBY

_Venator-class Star Destroyer, designation: Herald_

After three days, the silence feels routine.

Cody checks on his men, fills out his reports, and keeps well away from the end of the ship in which Kota’s quarters are located. With the siege’s end, and a Republic victory, there’s more than enough work to keep his hands and mind busy.

If he’s moving, he’s not thinking. And if he’s not thinking, it doesn’t hurt.

Cody’s helping Mirj inventory the second-to-last supply cabinet in his assigned medbay when the summons come through.

“Go,” Mirj says, and doesn’t ask what’s set his jaw in so tense a line. “I can finish up here.”

Cody doesn’t remember most of the steps to Block’s office. He knows he counted them: knows every footfall struck like the beat of his pounding heart. The blood is loud in his ears.

He comes to a stop outside the door and lifts his hand to knock. His arm trembles.

“Come in.”

Block’s office is small and sparsely decorated. There are a few commendations in a frame on the edge of his desk, as if he pulled the case from a box and shoved it in the first place that occurred to him and then never moved it again. For a second, Cody’s hands twitch at his sides; he wants to reach out and straighten the frame. Everything else on the desk is squared away; the frame is crooked and out of place.

Block is seated behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. There’s no tension to the set of his spine. His smile is welcoming. Relaxed. Cody notes it like an order.

Relax.

“Commander,” Block says, and motions to the chair across from him. Cody eases into it without a word.

For a moment, all he can hear is the harsh rasp of his own breath in his ears. He waits for Block’s face to turn down in a frown. Waits for the false sympathy and the stale regret. Waits to be told he’s going to be boarding the next transport to Kamino so the _kaminiise_ can run some helpful, helpful tests and tell him what’s wrong with him. Waits to be told he’ll be as good as new soon. Waits to be told he shouldn’t worry.

Waits to be told he’s going to be torn apart.

“Commander,” Block says again. It’s gentler this time. “You’re shaking.”

Cody stills the shudder with a steel grip: one hand wrapped around the other. “No, sir,” he says coolly, and swallows the burn and the ache.

Block doesn’t look like he believes him, but he doesn’t push. Might be a good sign: Waxer said he was the one that ordered Kota to stand down. Or it might mean he doesn’t care enough to ask because Cody isn’t going to be around long enough for the answer to mean anything.

“I asked you here to discuss your actions during the siege of Galtor VI.”

Cody holds himself so still he almost forgets to breathe.

Block tilts his head at him. His brown eyes are warm. “What you did was extraordinarily difficult,” he says, and slides his datapad across the desk. “I wanted to give you this personally.”

Numbly, Cody accepts it, flipping it about so it’s correctly aligned. It takes him a moment to realize he’s staring at his own file: CC-number, rank, date of commission, current assignment, and a new section with which he’s not familiar. He taps it. Scrolls.

His breath stops.

“A commendation, sir?” Cody blurts, and snaps his head up to meet Block’s gaze. “I don’t understand.”

“Some men would have carried out those orders,” Block says. “Wrong or right. You didn’t. That’s worthy of recognition.”

“No, sir,” Cody says, and his lips are moving and forming words, but he’s not telling them to. A commendation. “I was only doing my duty.”

Block shakes his head. “If I believed that, Commander,” he says, “you wouldn’t be in here right now. What you did required courage and strength of character. You have both in immense measure.”

Cody swallows against the lump swelling in his throat. “I – thank you, sir,” he says. “I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Thank you,’ is sufficient.” Block’s mouth curves into a soft smile. It’s almost paternal. Cody’s reminded of Jango. When the admiral reaches across his desk and offers his hand to shake, Cody takes it without thinking.

“Well done,” Block says, and Cody knows he means it.

He doesn’t count the steps on the return trip.

As an officer, Cody has been delegated personal quarters. Mostly he’s used them as a place to clean up after his sparring matches with Kota – separate from his brothers until he had the strength to stand in their midst again. He’s no use to them half-dead, after all, and Waxer, at least, would have fussed.

Part of him wishes he could have let him.

Cody palms the door shut. The space is largely bare: just a bunk, a ’fresher, and a small desk with his datapad set square to the center. None of them have very many possessions, but some of his brothers have begun to pick up things here or there: just small conveniences. A deck of pazaak cards. A tube of toothpaste that’s not standard issue and doesn’t taste like chalk. Technically, it’s all contraband.

Technically, Cody doesn’t know it exists.

The light in the ’fresher flickers, once, and steadies into a dim white glow. Cody presses his hands to either side of the sink, drops his head to his chest, and breathes. He wants to get his datapad; he wants to call Rex, see him smile, tell him he loves him one more time.

But Rex is gone.

His breath catches in his throat. His grip on the sink spasms. Squeezes. Holds. There’s no time for grief; their new general will be assigned to them soon enough, and if they’re anything like either of their predecessors, they’ll be functionally useless to the unit. Free was too soft; Kota’s too sharp. Both are Jedi.

Peacekeepers, no matter their form, have no place in this war.

Slowly, Cody lifts his head. His own bloodshot eyes stare back at him. The wound, despite being carefully stitched closed by Mirj and then healed shut by bacta, is still covered by a thin layer of gauze. Mirj said it was to stop him from picking at it.

Maybe it’s to stop him from thinking about it, too.

Cody peels the gauze away and sets it carefully on the edge of the sink, then, tremblingly, lifts his fingers to trace the edge of the still-forming scar. The flesh is tender and angry. It prickles painfully under his touch. The mark is deep; it might fade with time, but for all of the advanced medical technology at their disposal, it will never be gone completely. Ragged pain. Crimson haze. Get up.

Always remember.

Cody doesn’t put the gauze back.

* * *

“You’re staying in here with us again?”

There’s a lot of hope in Wooley’s eyes. Cody’s struck with the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair. He settles for shoving his shoulder.

“I’m trying to,” Cody says, and stares pointedly at the bunk that’s supposed to be his but is currently occupied by Longshot. The sniper quirks a brow. Cody jerks his head to the side and shoves at him. “Move it.”

Longshot rolls out of the bunk. No sooner has Cody kicked off his boots and taken his place than Waxer is beside him, tugging his blanket up to his chin and fussing with the pillow until it’s situated comfortably beneath his head. Cody wonders if it’s too telling that he doesn’t protest.

If it is, none of them seems inclined to mention it.

“Thought you were supposed to leave the gauze on for another day,” Waxer murmurs, and elbows at Crys when he leans over to straighten a corner of Cody’s blanket. Crys shoves him and stays put.

Cody shrugs. The blanket slips down. Crys replaces it.

“You’re lucky Mirj in the medbay right now,” Crys says. “Or he’d have your head.”

Cody snorts. “Let me sleep,” he grumbles. “If Mirj has a problem, he can talk to me directly.”

“He will,” Gregor supplies, as if that’s any help. He peers over the edge of the top bunk directly above Cody. It’s not typical for commandos, as a squad, to stay in the company bunk room; most of them prefer their own circle and conversation, too accustomed by upbringing to the comfort of only four.

Cody had never offered them a separate space, and Gregor had never asked for one.

“Rest,” Waxer reminds, and rests a hand on Cody’s shoulder. His smile is, for the first time in months, genuinely warm. “That’ll appease him.”

Cody presses his eyes closed and tries to mirror the others. The lights are dim. Their breaths are soft. Soothing. Even.

Asleep.

Cody’s breath hitches. There’s a lump in his throat.

Rex is never coming home.

“Cody?”

Wooley’s voice, in the ambient darkness, sounds small. He spends so much time with his chin held high, with pulsing fire in his eyes, that sometimes Cody forgets how much he shook the first time he set foot on a gunship bound for a warzone.

Cody pushes himself up on an elbow and strains to see in the gloom. Wooley’s in the bunk across from him, propped on one arm and half out of his covers. “You okay?” Wooley asks, a harsh whisper, and worries the blanket’s seam.

“I’m fine,” Cody says, without thinking. It comes easier than it should. His voice is even: at odds with the turmoil turning in his chest. Rex is gone. Nothing is right. Nothing is solid. Nothing is sure.

But his voice is steady.

Wooley wrinkles his nose and throws his blanket the rest of the way off. His feet hit the floor with a dull thud. He closes the distance between them and stops at Cody’s side.

Cody arches an eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?” he asks, when Wooley doesn’t move.

“Shove over,” Wooley says.

“Excuse me?”

“Shove over,” Wooley repeats, and nudges his shoulder.

Brash and bold are not words Cody would usually use to describe Wooley. Cody stares at him a moment longer, then slowly, begrudgingly, scoots toward the wall. Wooley slides into the space he’s just vacated. It takes him a moment to fumble with the blanket so it’s covering them both.

“Comfortable?” Cody asks dryly.

Wooley’s a warm weight pressed against his side; his head lands on Cody’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “I am, actually.”

“Happy I could help.”

“You do,” Wooley says. “With everything.”

The rest goes unspoken, hanging between them in the dim silence. Cody’s throat is tight, suddenly. He bows his head to Wooley’s curls. They’re mostly shaved, now, save a soft wave that runs lengthwise down the center of his skull.

“When did you cut your hair?” Cody asks.

“Yesterday,” Wooley says. There’s a tint of confusion to his tone. “You saw me.”

He doesn’t remember it. If he’s honest, he doesn’t remember much of anything, lately. His head is heavy; his chest is full. “Right,” Cody says haltingly. “Of course.”

Wooley takes hold of his hand and twines their fingers together. Squeezes, once. “Get some sleep,” he whispers. “Before we wake Mirj up.”

Cody’s breath hitches again.

“Thank you, _vod’ika_ ,” he whispers, and squeezes back.

\--


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango gave them the barest provisions and turned them loose in the forest with only a long-distance commlink for emergencies; use it out of turn, you fail the exercise. Fail the exercise, and the do-over is twice as long.

_25 BBY_

_Training Site Delta IX_

“All the places he could have sent us, and he picked this one.”

Cody does his best to hide a smile. Fox, like the rest of them, is covered from head to toe in slick dirt and grime; his hair is matted with leaves, sticking to his forehead in clumps of muddy curls. If any of them set foot inside of Tipoca City looking like this, Cody’s sure Nala Se would find a reason to wring their necks.

“It’s not that bad,” Rex says. “At least we’re outside.”

“Small comfort,” Fox grumbles, and wraps his arms around himself. Their clothes are soaked through and unlike Rex, Fox does not run warm.

“Hate to agree with Fox,” Wolffe says, “but he’s right. This mission is _osik_.”

Cody holds up a hand to halt their march. Their fireteam been hiking for the last four hours, cutting down through valleys and up over steep inclines. The return to their shuttle is the final leg of a standard-week-long survival mission. Jango gave them the barest provisions and turned them loose in the forest with only a long-distance commlink for emergencies; use it out of turn, you fail the exercise. Fail the exercise, and the do-over is twice as long.

Check in late, and the result is the same. The terrain is treacherously slick. The trip back is taking twice as long. Early start or not, they don’t have time for delays.

And yet.

“Cody?” Rex calls. “What is it?”

His brothers’ breaths are harsh in his hears. A shudder runs down his spine. Once they crest this hill, it’s a slow, stumbling descent to the shuttle, and then the mission is complete. Cody curls a hand into a fist and dares a step forward.

The pulsing in his chest turns to a vicious pound. Cody stops short, raising his hand again so the others don’t follow. In war, a breath is the difference between leaving the battlefield on your feet or in a bag. Listen to your instincts.

Look again.

There’s no sun to glint off the ship’s hull; at this angle, the silver is barely visible through the trees. Cody tugs his macrobinoculars out of the pouch on his pack and zeroes in on the anomaly. They left their shuttle in a sheltered valley and camouflaged it with brush from the surrounding thickets so it wouldn’t be visible from the air. In theory, it was just for good practice; the planet is uninhabited, tucked away in a remote system a few jumps from Kamino. There’s no reason to come here.

“Ship,” Cody says grimly.

“Jango?” Wolffe asks, unfazed.

“No.” Cody scans the horizon. “He would’ve told us he was coming.”

“Maybe we’re late,” Fox suggests.

Cody checks his chrono. Twenty-seven minutes until they have to check in. “No,” he says again. “We’ve got time.”

“Your chrono could be off.”

“It’s not.”

Fox blows out a breath. Cody forces himself not to sigh back; Fox could be bleeding out and still find time to be exasperated about it.

“Who the hell would come here willingly?” Fox almost grumbles. “There’s nothing valuable on this planet.”

“’Course there isn’t,” Wolffe says. “Rex being here cancels it all out.”

Rex folds his arms over his chest. “Not the time,” he returns evenly, before Cody can say the same. “We have a situation.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. “You don’t say.”

“We’ve trained for this,” Cody reminds. As one, they snap to. No more jokes; no more games. “We’re going to conduct standard recon. Once we have more information, we’ll make our move. Understood?”

Rex nods curtly. Fox and Wolffe mirror him. Cody holds their gazes, one after the other, then unholsters one of his pistols.

“With me.”

They fall into formation alongside him; Cody takes them in a winding path around the side of the sprawling incline, not to its peak. Once they’ve closed enough distance, Cody drops to his stomach and inches forward until he can peer down without being immediately visible to anyone watching from below.

The unidentified ship is large and circular: a Corona-class armed frigate, if memory serves. Armed to the teeth. Large crew.

Too large for them to take alone.

“Oh,” Fox says. “The flying saucer frigate.”

Cody bites back another sigh. There are several figures milling about in the clearing, clutching rifles or twirling electrostaffs. The shuttle has been uncovered; the brush is scattered.

“Ramp’s still up,” Wolffe whispers. “Maybe they haven’t bypassed the security yet.”

“Maybe they don’t have a reason to.” Rex jabs a finger at the sentries. “They’re here for something. They probably think we’re after it too.”

“Base site?” Fox suggests. “It’s remote enough.”

Maybe too remote; it’s too far from anything major to be useful. If they’re bounty hunters looking for a place to lay low, it would make sense, but a ship that size, with that many crew? They didn’t come here to hide. They came here to hunt.

Pirates.

“Hold.” Cody tugs the emergency commlink out of its holster. The other three stiffen.

“You’re sure,” Rex says slowly. “You don’t think this is a test.”

The Kaminoans complain, loudly and often, about Jango’s training methods. They prefer consistent structure and controlled predictions. Alter one aspect at a time, they tell him: data from scenarios littered with randomly introduced variables is useless. This could easily be one of those scenarios. Get them to comm in and call for backup when it’s unnecessary. Get them to fail the exercise in the final stretch.

The tension coiled in his chest twists.

“No,” Cody says abruptly, and keys in Jango’s comm frequency. “I don’t. There are too many of them. He wouldn’t set up a failure scenario this far into a survival mission.”

The commlink buzzes, beeps, and stops. Cody tries the frequency again.

Nothing.

“They’re jamming communications.” Cody shoves the device back into the holster.

“Definitely not a test,” Wolffe hisses.

“You’d rather fail?” Fox asks dryly.

“If we don’t check in on time, Jango will come looking for us,” Rex points out. “We could wait it out.”

“He can’t take on that many alone either.” Cody sweeps his gaze across the group again. There are ten pirates on guard; if he wasn’t sure that there were more waiting inside the ship, he would call a formation and lead the charge.

“What’s the plan?” Wolffe’s voice is tight.

Hang back, and maybe Jango notices the pirates before they blow him out of the sky. Maybe he lands. Maybe he makes it to them. Maybe they make it home in one piece.

That’s too many maybes.

“We go back,” Cody says. “Regroup. Strategize. We’ll move when it’s dark. They won’t be able to see us as well. Clear?”

“Clear.”

The four of them inch away until they’re out of the pirates’ line of sight, then shift to stand. Cody snaps off a sequence of hand signals, and they shift into formation and move back toward the grove from which they just emerged.

“Get _down!_ ”

There’s no time to ask Fox what he’s seen. The breath leaves Cody’s lungs in a rush. The ground is on fire, smoking and seething and hissing as the water gathered there evaporates in a rush of steaming heat and flame. Get back. Stay low. Keep on.

“I wouldn’t move another muscle if I was you.”

Cody jolts to a jerky stop. Rex is to his left, Fox and Wolffe to his right. None of them has spoken. The voice came from behind the wispy wall. Until the smoke parts around a silhouette, Cody thinks he might have imagined it.

His brothers’ breaths are harsh in his ears.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here?” the voice asks, and Cody dares push himself to a crouch, dimly conscious of Rex and Wolffe and Fox mirroring him on either side.

It’s a Weequay; he’s clad in an ankle-length coat with a high collar. He adjusts it as he steps forward, tugging at the lapels until he seems satisfied with how it’s settled on his shoulders. The coat’s a bright purple. Distantly, Cody thinks it’s an odd choice for someone conducting an operation on an arboreal planet. It stands out too much.

The Weequay stops a mere few feet from Cody and stands, silent, considering, for an uncomfortably long beat. Cody tracks him as he eases to eye level. The pirate’s gaze snaps between them, bouncing from Fox’s face to Rex’s to Cody’s to Wolffe’s and back again at random. His features twist into a frown. Cody’s stomach turns.

The pirate adjusts his goggles like that will help him see more clearly. “Quadruplets,” he proclaims. “That’s very rare. Or so I’ve been told. I think. A geneticist told me. I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening. He had an accident before he could finish telling me, anyway, but I think that was what he said.”

“Who are you?” Fox asks. There’s a hint of a tremble in his voice, as if he’s a scared civilian with no idea which end of the blaster fires the bolt and which end gets propped against your shoulder. “What do you want with us?”

Wolffe’s effort to suppress his eyeroll is so profound Cody swears he can feel it coming off him in a wave.

The pirate starts. “What do I want with you?” he asks, incredulous. He wags a finger at them. “Nothing! I am only here for my treasure. And you, I think, are going to come between me and it.”

Fox makes a noise that’s somewhere between desperation and panic-choked fear. It’s disturbingly convincing. “Look,” Cody cuts in. “We don’t want any trouble. We were just—”

“‘We were just, we were just,’” the pirate parrots. “No. I think not. The last man who started with ‘we were just’ no longer has a tongue he can use to tell me such lies. You are like me. You are here for the treasure.”

“Treasure?” Wolffe blurts. “On this shithole?”

The pirate stabs a finger at him. “Exactly!” he says. “That’s the genius of it. You look at these horrible trees and you say, ‘how could there _possibly_ be anything valuable here?’, but the Architects, oh, they knew how to hide their riches. Yes, there is treasure here – and you are going to tell me how to get it.”

“We don’t know about any treasure,” Cody interposes evenly. “We were here to camp.”

The pirate barks a disbelieving laugh. “Lies, again,” he says. “You are bold. I will give you that. I admire it, even. But it will not convince me to spare you. You tell me how to get to the treasure, and I will be generous: I will leave you with your ship, and your lives.”

* * *

The pirate leader’s name is Hondo Ohnaka, and he never shuts the hell up.

Ohnaka leads them down into the valley, past the ships, and onto one of the many paths winding through the trees. Cody’s been placed at the front of the group with Rex; Fox and Wolffe have been moved to the rear.

Ohnaka has a piece of trivia for every step. He split them up for safety, he said. In the event the party comes under attack by some wild animal or another, they won’t all be eaten at once, he said.

Cody bites back a sigh. Ohnaka says a lot. Most of it’s nonsense. The safety briefings for this mission had been incredibly thorough; there were no predators on this side of the planet large enough to pose a threat to an adult humanoid. Ohnaka, evidently, doesn’t know that, doesn’t care, or thinks that insisting the surrounding forest is unsafe will dissuade his captives from taking any opportunity to escape.

Wolffe is several feet behind them, out of sight. Cody can still feel the sheer force of will he’s exerting to keep from rolling his eyes.

Ohnaka brings the group to a halt in front of a cliff face and gestures to a trail twisting down toward its base. “This,” he says, taking hold of Cody’s shoulders and turning him to face the trail, “is where we part ways. You go down in there, you get my treasure, you come back and give it to me, and I do not kill your brothers.”

“Right.” Treasure. What treasure? Cody bites back the question. Knowing what he’s looking for would be helpful, but for all of his babble, Ohnaka never once mentioned what, exactly, he and his crew were here in search of. If he really believes Cody and his brothers are also here for ‘treasure’, then he expects that they’ll know where to go and what to bring back. If he doesn’t, and his belief is just a poor cover, then he’s planning to use them as scouts.

Better to sacrifice strangers than his own men.

Ohnaka spins him about and shoves him a few steps. “Go, go, go,” he says, flapping a hand at the cave below. “We do not have all the time in the world.”

“I’m going with him.” Rex jolts forward before the pirate beside him can stop him. “We’ll be able to – there’s a better chance of success with two of us.”

Rex can’t lie convincingly on his best day.

Ohnaka considers them for a moment, tapping his foot and drumming his fingers against his chin. “All right,” he accedes at last. “Go.”

Cody turns back halfway down the incline. Fox and Wolffe are surrounded by pirates; every weapon in their vicinity is trained on them. They meet his gaze squarely. Cody can’t say it aloud. He trusts they understand anyway.

 _K’oyacyi_. Stay alive.

The entrance to the cave yawns wide before them. Cody comes to a slow stop at its edge.

“That’s inviting,” Rex mutters, and glances over his shoulder: back up the incline. To Fox and Wolffe. He shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “Cody?”

A cool draft whispers from the cave’s entrance. Cody lifts a hand toward the stone around it. He doesn’t know what he’s reaching for. He doesn’t know why. Some force of will compels him, swelling in his chest like a command. His fingertips brush the moss and map the uneven topography beneath. For an instant, there are a million voices. For an instant, there are a billion minds. The stone is ancient, and it sings of sun and shadow: of rising heights and infinite depths. He could stare into them for eternity – could get lost in their void call.

“Cody?”

Cody’s breath leaves him in a rush. His chest aches. His fingertips tingle from where they touched the stone. He realizes, dimly, that the pulsing thrum in his ears is his own heartbeat. “I’m okay,” he says, though it sounds more like a gasp. “I’m okay, Rex. Let’s go.”

Stepping across the threshold feels right. It’s as if the cave is beckoning him. Cody falters. He’s drawn by the same force that compelled him to touch the stone. It flows like a river around him. He pushes against its tide, and it yields. He could stop here. He doesn’t have to go on. He doesn’t have to heed its call.

“You’re starting to worry me, Codes.”

Cody jolts. Fox and Wolffe are still topside with blasters poised to blow their brains out. Of course he has to go on. Of course he has to go further in. He shakes his head sharply. Focus.

Keep moving.

They’ve barely gone two steps before Rex yelps. Cody whirls about to find him shuddering and scooting away from a fallen figure. In the dim light still cast by the cave entrance, it’s difficult to make out details, but Cody can see enough to tell it’s another Weequay.

“Ohnaka must have sent him in first,” Cody says. “To scout the place out.”

Rex extracts a light from his pack and clicks it on. Cody wonders, briefly, why he didn’t think to do the same. They need to be able to see if they’re going to continue on. There’s no invisible guide that will tell them if they’re about to stumble into a chasm and crash to their deaths.

The light catches the Weequay’s face. He looks peaceful, like he’s asleep. Rex leans toward him.

“He’s still breathing.” Rex sounds uneasy. He nudges the pirate’s shoulder. No response. “What the hell knocked him out? There are no marks on him.”

The pulse in Cody’s chest grows. Somehow, he knows.

“I have no idea,” he says, instead of the truth beating strong in his bones. His veins are on fire, but his heart rate has fallen and steadied. He’s never felt so vivid and present and alive.

The stone is ancient, and it sings.

Rex snorts and pushes himself to his feet. “So,” he says. “The pirates’ treasure. Any idea what we should be looking for?”

Cody barely hears him. He should be able to hear him. There is nothing and no one more important than that in this moment.

Focus.

“We’ll take this path further in,” Cody says.

“It has to branch off at some point. How are we supposed to know which way to go?”

Rex’s words are steady, save a faint tremor. They’ve been trained to navigate mazes and keep track of tortuous paths, but with memory, there’s always room for mortal error. They could lose their grasp on their surroundings. They could take a wrong turn. One misstep, and they doom themselves to the labyrinth’s depths.

Cody’s chest is light. His breath, he thinks, should be strangled by the same fear he can hear in Rex’s voice. Instead, it comes easily. Where there should be dread there is only peace.

“We’ll be all right,” Cody says. “Come on.”

Rex studies him for a beat, then falls into step. “We don’t have a choice,” he says, picking his way carefully along. “I know. But do you have any idea how we’re going to get back out of here?”

The river rises; the river flows. Cody brushes his fingers along the cave wall. It hums.

“Just trust me,” he says, and doesn’t wonder why that feels like enough.

\--


End file.
